


Connecting on the Wraparound

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bellarke Bingo, F/M, Or: the gangs all here and they're ready to fix Bellamy's life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 84,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23003938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Bellamy Blake is exhausted.Sick of the game that’s been at the center of his life for as long as he can remember, and the reputation he’s garnered because of it, Bellamy is desperate to get away from the ice during the NHL All-Star break. So, without much thought to what he’s doing or why he’s doing it, Bellamy heads home, to the place he thought he could never come back to.It’s a stupid idea, really, or so Octavia has told him seventy-six times, but then Clarke Griffin is standing in front of him and her daughter is an even better skater than Bellamy is and, all of the sudden, Arkadia seems like the most important place in the world.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 166
Kudos: 382





	1. Chapter 1

The tires on the car he rented suck. 

No, that’s not right. The opposite of suck. They slip and slide, far too much ice on the only road back to Arkadia, and the irony of the whole thing is not lost on Bellamy. It’s stupid, but it is not lost. He grunts when the car skids again, a distinct lack of traction while his knuckles go white around an unfamiliar steering wheel and he’s not altogether sure if his brain is getting the oxygen it so desperately needs. 

His lungs feel like they’re on fire. 

And he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open. 

It is, he will eventually argue, why what happens next happens. 

There is a person standing in the middle of the road. 

Bellamy slams on the brakes, nearly dislocating several joints in the process, and he’s only marginally frustrated that he’s not surprised. The public works department in Arkadia is one guy and the last thing Bellamy remembers about him is that he was sixty-two a decade ago, so. There is snow everywhere. He puts the car in park, slamming the door behind him, and at the very least his feet don’t slide across the ice-covered road. 

It’s a slim victory, but those have been few and far between recently, so Bellamy is going to take what he can get. 

“Holy shit, the prodigal son returns.”

Bellamy freezes. More irony. Kind of. More a poorly-timed joke, really. In his head. But he can hear the smile in Jasper’s voice, even before he takes another step forward, a vaguely familiar outline in front of him and—

“Are you seriously here?” Jasper continues. “Not a figment of my imagination?”  
  
“You imagining me a lot, Jordan?” Bellamy asks, quirking an eyebrow when he crosses his arms across his chest. He never turned the car off. He wonders if he’ll get charged more by the rental place if he fucks with the car battery. 

“Nah,” Jasper chuckles. “Why would I have to imagine you when your face is plastered on a variety of sporting programs every night?”  
  
“I don’t play every night. And ESPN doesn’t care about hockey.”

“Wow, so getting everything you’ve ever wanted hasn’t made you any less of a dick, huh?”  
  
Bellamy exhales, part laugh and part agreement and he’s already lost track of the number of times Octavia has called him. And texted him. And attempted to FaceTime him. It is, she says, because she’s worried and Bellamy knows that’s reasonable. 

He’s worried. 

About his game and his inability to keep the puck on his stick in the neutral zone and if it is, in fact, possible for someone’s sanity to snap. 

At least his had the common courtesy to do it during the All-Star break. 

He’s counting that as several points. Not enough for one of those aforementioned and entirely metaphorical victories or enough that the Rangers would move up in the Metro standings, but that’s also a step in the decidedly insane direction. 

“What are you doing here, Bellamy?” Jasper asks, half a step forward and he doesn’t slide on the ice either. Also not surprising. He’s got to turn the car off. Bellamy can’t seem to move. “Because—well, it’s not like you’ve been here and it’s—”  
  
“—Been awhile,” Bellamy finishes. His voice cracks, far too many years and misplaced idioms because he’s also not entirely sure why he’s here or what he wants from Arkadia, only sure that he couldn’t think of a better place to go. 

Home. 

Bellamy Blake is home. 

For the first time since he left.

“Yeah, exactly,” Jasper nods. “They teach you how to avoid answering questions when you became rich and famous?”  
  
“You’re joking, but…”  
  
“No shit, really?”  
  
“They call it media training. It’s someone’s job to make sure I don’t say anything idiotic.”  
  
“And how’s that going?”  
  
“Eh,” Bellamy shrugs. “I don’t talk a lot anymore. Just—”  
  
“—Play like garbage.”  
  
“Wow, that’s almost aggressively honest.”  
  
Jasper hums, far too noncommittal to be comforting. Bellamy isn’t sure he wants comfort. He’s got no idea what he wants. 

That’s the problem. 

And now he can’t really stand up. 

“Does O know you’re here?” Jasper continues, and a door opens a few feet away, one of the stores on Main Street.  
  
Arkadia is the kind of place that has a Main Street and far too many water puns on the rest of its streets, the kind of place with weathered shutters on nearly every house, wrap-around porches and a population that doubles in size during the summer. It’s a so-called respite for Washington elites, a “quick” three-hour drive, or so the one tourism pitch Arkadia came up with when Bellamy was twelve claimed. It’s quiet and impossibly loud, a contradiction that makes perfect sense because everyone in Arkadia knows everyone else and has since, quite possibly, the dawn of time. 

There is one stop light. 

It’s the perfect place for a soon-to-be washed-up NHL player to have a mental breakdown. 

Bellamy’s phone buzzes again. 

Jasper grins. “Ah, I guess that answers that question.”  
  
“She said it’s a shitty vacation choice,” Bellamy grumbles.

“Where? Here? In Arkadia.”  
  
“I am technically on vacation.”  
  
“Fuck—that’s...super lame, you know that? Aren’t professional athletes supposed to—I don’t know. Go to the Bahamas or something?”  
  
“There’s a beach here.”  
  
“It’s January, Bellamy.”  
  
Another shrug. 

He really was God awful at media training. 

The footsteps that had been coming from the nearby door are heavier now, not able to jog because Arkadia has clearly run out of rock salt already, but Bellamy can hear the soft laugh, like half a memory and nostalgia because—”Is that the ghost of Bellamy Blake, NHL all-star?” 

“He’s not an all-star,” Jasper argues, and Monty’s smile stretches wide. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be here. On vacation.”  
  
Monty lets out a low whistle, rocking back on his heels. “Wow, that’s the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Bellamy doesn’t blush — is far too aware of just how lame it is, in fact, but his tongue finds the inside of his cheek and he wishes he could come up with something clever to say. Witty, even. Possibly some banter. 

That would have been normal. 

That’s what it always was, after all. Ease and calm and _home_ , in the stereotypical, small-town kind of way. A team. This was his team. 

And he left. 

Until now. 

Maybe. 

That car battery is totally going to die. 

“Plus,” Jasper adds, “any ghost-like tendencies suggest that Bellamy, the man, is dead, and not just his ability to forecheck.”

Bellamy quirks an eyebrow. “Are you stalking me?”  
  
“He’s got a lot of money on the Rangers winning the Cup this season,” Monty explains. Something twists in Bellamy’s gut. “Also, you look like shit, when’s the last time you slept?”  
  
“Is it that obvious?”  
  
“What a dumb question.”  
  
“We’re seriously stalking you,” Jasper grins, a step into Bellamy’s space and a hand on his shoulder and it’s not the perfect reunion. It’s not the explanation they deserve or the one Bellamy only kind of wants to give, but there’s also a rather pronounced lump of emotion sitting in the middle of his throat, so he’s not sure he’d be able to actually get the words out anyway. 

And Monty’s eyes flash, understanding mixing in with a hint of acceptance. That’s nice. In a... _you can always come home_ kind of way. Bellamy didn’t bring any hockey equipment with him.

“Anyway, uh,” Bellamy continues, “I’m off for like ten days, so—” His shrug lacks any real sense of conviction, which more than one New York daily has been very quick to point out is his problem. No focus. No determination. Skating without any purpose. It’s goddamn depressing. The lot of it.  
  
“You thought you’d come back to Arkadia?” Monty ventures. “For the first time in…”  
  
“Seven years, five months, fourteen days and I don’t know the hours.”  
  
“Well, yeah, that would be psychotic. Where are you staying? I mean your house isn’t really an option, right?”  
  
“Oh no, no, no, that’s...do people live there?” Monty nods slowly. “Yeah, I figured. Indra’s going to let me crash at one of her cabins. I’m not sure it’ll have running water, but it’s something.”

“Something?”  
  
“Something.”

“Not psychotic at all,” Monty repeats. “Well, your forecheck really does suck, but I guess even famous hockey players deserve some time off. Ten days?”  
  
“Whoever made this schedule is insane. But we’ve got that bye and—”  
  
“—You going to skate with us?”  
  
“You still skate?”  
  
“Oh, that’s insulting,” Jasper mutters with a smirk. “Plus, you are in the presence of the Tidewater’s greatest hockey coach. So long as he only coaches children.”

Bellamy knows his eyes widen, can feel the way they go dry almost immediately, surprise settling on his face. Monty sighs. “Can’t ever really get away from it, you know?” he asks. “It’s, uh—we still run a bunch of teams, but the U14 is actually pretty good and they’d probably lose their shit if you showed up.”  
  
“Which is exactly what you want from teenagers, right?” Bellamy asks. 

Monty rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, sure I’ll show,” Bellamy nods, agreeing to something he’s not sure he wants to. Maybe it’s the oxygen deprivation. He doesn’t think so. His lungs don’t hurt as much anymore. “Tomorrow?”  
  
“At the end, like ten. I don’t need you fucking up my entire practice.”  
“That’d be a dick move.”  
  
“It would,” Monty agrees, but he’s still smiling and the normalcy of it all is as weird as it absolutely isn’t. “It’s good to see you, Bell.”  
  
Not weird. Not entirely normal. Like home. 

“Yeah, you too. I’ve got to meet Indra so I can get a key, but—”  
  
“—Don’t let her try to feed you,” Jasper says. “And if you don’t actually have any water, come by The Dropship later.”

“You guys hang out at The Dropship?”  
  
“Don’t say it like that. You make us sound like degenerates. And Murphy owns it now, so…”  
  
“No shit.”  
  
“I’m going to tell him you said that.”

"And there’s one bar in this town,” Monty adds. “No hockey tonight, but we can definitely make fun of whatever basketball games are on. As, you know, the inferior sport.”  
  
“Still not happy with that lack of a growth spurt, huh?” Bellamy asks knowingly, but something sparks in the back of his brain as well and he briefly wonders if he’s dreaming. He’s had dreams like this. That he could just come back — a hint of hope and slightly foggy expectations, half-forgotten memories of this place and the kid who grew up on the ice there, plans and wants and the goddamn ability to forecheck.

“There’s still an air hockey table,” Monty says, like that will help Bellamy make up his mind. It at least makes him grin. “Are you allowed to drink, though? Some team rep isn’t going to come down and chastise you for being a human being, are they?”  
  
Bellamy shakes his head. “Nah, I’m on vacation.”  
  
“Good.”

* * *

It doesn’t take him long to get to Indra’s cabins—Arkadia isn’t that big, but the roads are still covered in ice and Bellamy doesn’t drive in New York. So, once again, he’s not entirely surprised to find a smile waiting for him, the hint of teasing laughter tugging at the end of Indra’s mouth where she’s standing on the front porch.

Someone in Arkadia must have written a porch-decree at some point. 

And he remembers to turn the car off this time. 

Indra’s eyes don’t leave him when Bellamy grabs his bags, leveling him with a very particular stare he hasn’t seen since he was seventeen, and it’s enough to leave his skin flushed, bounding up the steps like he’s being timed.

“Your sister has called me a dozen times in the last two hours.”  
  
“She’s got a lot of opinions.”

Indra doesn’t make any noise, just lifts her eyebrows and presses her lips together—which is somehow ten-thousand times worse, like being grounded or caught out after curfew, more memories that leave a bitter taste in the back of Bellamy’s mouth. 

“Have I thanked you for this?”

Her eyebrows nearly fly off her face. 

“For, uh,” Bellamy flounders, waving a hand through the air, “letting me—”  
  
“—Run away?”  
  
“Oh look who’s got opinions now.”

Indra sighs, directing them both into the small living room. It still smells like salt, even with the windows closed and locked, and there’s no TV. Bellamy isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing.  
  
“I’m not here to judge you.”  
  
“No?” Bellamy objects. “That’s certainly what it sounds like.”  
  
“If I was I wouldn’t have let you stay here.”  
  
He grunts. “That’s a good point.”  
  
“I know it is. And I know that your sister’s incessant phone calls are, in fact, because she’s worried. Because neither one of you have looked back at this place in years. For good reason, but that’s—”  
  
“—There’s no deeper meaning here, Indra,” Bellamy interrupts, but it’s a lie and an obvious one. “I’ve got some time off and you’re right. It’s been way too long since I’ve been here. I just wanted...well, it’ll be quiet here. I want some quiet. That’s all.”

Another distinct lack of response. 

At least audibly.  
  
Indra tilts her head, eyes gone thin as slits, like she’s trying to read Bellamy’s mind or the extra meaning behind his words. There’s far too much of it. He ignores it. The no TV thing is starting to feel better and better. 

“How many people did you run into already?” she asks. 

“You think I’m running people over with my car?”  
  
She lifts her eyebrows, and Bellamy huffs—a quick scrunch of his nose and sudden tension in his jaw, because Indra’s not his mom. There might not actually be a name for what Indra is. He still feels seventeen. 

“It’s not my car,” Bellamy mumbles. “You know, technically.”  
  
“Did you pay extra for four-wheel drive?”  
  
“Thought it was good to be prepared. The roads suck here.”  
  
“That’s because it’s not easy to get to.”  
  
He’s reasonably certain the sentence isn’t supposed to have multiple meanings, but this is also Indra and she’s spent most of Bellamy’s life muttering double entendres and advice that he never asked for, but has come to depend on and—“Your forecheck is embarrassing,” she adds. “That column in _The Post_ was right.”  
  
“Shit, Indra, why are you reading _The Post_?”  
  
“They’re the only ones willing to talk about your game.”

He curses, ignoring the glint in Indra’s eyes when he marches into the kitchen, swinging open the refrigerator door, but there isn’t anything there and that feels a bit like a metaphor too. Or a lesson. A heavy-handed one. 

“You’ll find the quiet you’re looking for here, Bellamy,” Indra says, cool and calm. Bellamy doesn’t turn around. “But that quiet can let your own thoughts run loudly. And I don’t know that you’re entirely ready to deal with them.”  
  
“You want to get some sticks and pucks? You can just start pelting me with one-timers. It might be more effective than this.”  
  
“Bellamy.”  
  
“Just start slashing my ankles?”

“There are people living there now.”  
  
He licks his lips — all too aware of what Indra’s talking about and she’s trying to goad him into something. Several things, really. Admitting and accepting and probably some other word that starts with ‘a’ and requires Bellamy to feel things or process things and he’s starting to regret not bringing any equipment with him. 

He’d like to shoot at something. 

Hard

“That’s how it works, Indra,” he says instead. “People move. They buy houses. They live there. Have lives. It’s a good thing.”  
  
“Yuh huh. I don’t think you should go to the rink, either.”

He inhales sharply, shoulders objecting to the movement and his face is cold from staring at the empty fridge. “I’m not here to reminisce, Indra. I’m—I don’t know what the fuck I am, honestly, but this season has been—” He grits his teeth, spinning back around to another familiar expression and the hand he runs over his face threatens to tear at his skin. “I just need a break, that’s it.”  
  
“Did Monty ask you to come to practice?”  
  
“The mind-reading thing freaked me out when I was a kid, too.”  
  
She doesn’t smile, not really, but her lips twitch slightly, and that’s some kind of comfort. “His team is good. They’ve got a girl who is just—”  
  
“—A girl?”  
  
“Young too. Twelve, but with wrists like I’ve never seen.”  
  
“I’m going to try not to be offended by that.”  
  
Indra barks out a laugh. “You’re going to go to practice. I know it, you know it. You can’t stay away from the ice, Bellamy Blake. And it’s always been part of your problem.”  
  
“My only problem right now is what I’m going to eat later and the lack of delivery options in Arkadia.”  
  
“And you’re waiting half a second too long in the circle before you shoot. Especially on the power play.”

“I can’t make shooting lanes appear out of thin air.”  
  
“The kid I knew could.”  
  
“And the opinions keep on coming.”  
  
Indra nods, a quick squeeze of her hand. Both of their phones vibrate at the same time. “Answer your sister,” Indra says. “And don’t let Jasper Jordan goad you into playing that one game later tonight—what’s it called?”  
  
“Flip cup. God, the mind reading thing. Also, I’m really not a kid anymore, Indra.”

“Exactly. There’s a pizza place on Surf Avenue now. They’ll deliver out here.”

She smiles at him once before she turns on her heels, no other words or opinions, but Bellamy’s muscles tense and it takes him at least fourteen more seconds to close the fridge. 

* * *

**Octavia Blake, 9:45 p.m.** Did you seriously blow off Monty and Jasper at the Dropship?

 **Octavia Blake, 9:45 p.m.** That’s kind of a dick move by you. 

**Octavia Blake, 9:45 p.m.** Honestly. 

**Octavia Blake, 9:52 p.m.** Eventually you’re going to respond to me. 

**Octavia Blake, 10:21 p.m.** Are you asleep? Jeez, I hope you’re not asleep already. It’s...I don’t want to do the time difference, but it’s early, right? 

**Octavia Blake, 10:51 p.m.** Does everything in Arkadia still smell like salt? 

**Octavia Blake, 8:45 a.m.** You watch the sun come up over the water like a total dweeb?

**Bellamy Blake, 8:47 a.m.** Yeah. 

* * *

Indra’s cabin doesn’t have a TV, but it does have an ancient coffee maker that makes far too much noise and Bellamy drinks nearly an entire pot before he closes the front door behind him. 

The bags under his eyes feel like they have bags, an exhaustion that threatens to stretch out his muscles and pull him into the ground. Part of him wants to sit on the porch for the rest of the day, ignore every text message and every Tweet he knows is currently being written about the All-Star Skills competition, but most of him feels like a dick for blowing off The Dropship and he did say he would come to practice. 

He doesn’t bother rinsing out the coffee mug. 

And he walks without much thought, some of the snow from the day before already starting to melt, no real sense of direction because the direction is plastered on his soul or something equally absurd. He gets there much faster than he expected. 

“Ah, fuck,” Bellamy grumbles, stopping quickly enough he almost falls over himself. 

That would be oddly poetic. 

The metaphors have got to stop. 

Bellamy swipes his tongue over the front of his teeth, staring up at the building in front of him, as ramshackle as he remembers, with peeling paint on the sides and a crack in the far right window. He did that. A slapshot that sailed over the seats on a dare from Monty. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Bellamy chants. He runs a ragged hand over his face, trying to decide if he should back away slowly or run as quickly as he can, but both of those feel like metaphors too and he’s moving again. 

“Get a grip,” he says, entirely to himself. There’s no one else around. “You promised Monty. You don’t have to do anything. Smile at some kids.”

So, really, he’s a giant psychopath. At least he’s aware of it. And the door creaks when he swings it open. 

He can hear pucks hitting sticks. 

Strictly speaking, it never made sense for this to be here. Arkadia is small enough that it’s some sort of geographical miracle it even has a post office, let alone a hockey rink or the ability to field a team that could, at one point, catch the attention of Team USA. But this town doesn’t make sense and the Chesapeake Bay isn’t really a hotbed for hockey. 

It hadn’t made a difference. 

There was something about Arkadia that ignored the rules and the stereotypes of its location, a town-wide obsession that seemed to settle into the DNA of every single person who never left. 

Including Bellamy Blake. 

And sister. 

And part of that was because of Indra, all quiet determination and the certainty that the Blake siblings were better than their circumstances, getting them on the ice and teaching them how offsides worked and it took time, but then there were highlight videos and emails sent to anyone who would listen, telling them about the kid with the wicked one-timer and—

Bellamy can’t breathe. 

Again. 

He inhales faster than he can exhale, vision starting to swim in front of his eyes and it’s really the smell that does it. No salt. No water. Just slightly stale air and musty equipment, the telltale rubber of the puck and cold doesn’t really have a smell, but it still manages to burn its way into Bellamy when his breathing turns a bit desperate, sinking into the closest chair. 

That creaks too. 

Figures. 

He screws his eyes shut, elbows digging into his thighs. The tightness in his jaw feels like it reverberates into every single one of his gritted teeth, counting every crash into the boards until things start to settle and—

“Hey, look out!”  
  
Bellamy snaps his head up, eyes flying open and he’s just able to move before the puck sails past his right ear. He mumbles another curse, dimly aware of the person scrambling towards him, and there are more than a few questions being shouted at him from the ice. 

“Shit,” Monty cries, colliding with the boards. “Bell, are you ok?”  
  
He shakes his head, not an answer so much as just a desperate attempt to get his bearings back and the person on the edge of his vision moves. She’s paler than she probably should be, all wide eyes and palpable concern, fingers fluttering at her side like she’s trying to stop herself from reaching out. 

He almost wishes she wouldn’t. 

Maybe he’s actually concussed. 

“Fuck,” she breathes, and that shouldn’t be endearing. He hasn’t had a concussion in years. “Are you—”  
  
“An answer would be great, Bell,” Monty yells. 

Bellamy does his best to glare at him. “Fine. I’m fine. Didn’t even hit me.”

The woman doesn’t look entirely convinced, opening her mouth to object, but the boards in front of them shake when a kid slams into them, no helmet and her own vaguely terrified expression. 

“Clarke, Clarke, Clarke,” she chants. “Is he—it didn’t hit him, right? I wasn’t aiming for him.”  
  
“Nice to know I wasn’t under attack,” Bellamy mumbles, drawing a choked sound out of the woman. He can’t keep calling her that. Even in his head. 

But he also didn’t think there were people in Arkadia he hadn’t already met. 

Who hadn’t met him. 

Who didn’t know every single thing about him. 

“If you can make jokes, I doubt you’re injured,” the woman says, standing back up. She’s not that tall, a jacket and scarf wrapped tightly around her, but there’s something just on the edge of her that reminds Bellamy of a quiet strength, soft and a little determined and he seriously might be concussed. It’d be a medical miracle. 

“I’m fine,” he says again, glancing back towards the boards. The girl’s mouth drops open. “And that was a hell of a shot. What were you aiming at, if it wasn’t me?”  
  
“The, uh—well, it was a dare. We’re always trying to hit the crack in the window and practice is almost over and…” 

“Madi,” the woman chastises. “You know you’re not supposed to shoot off the ice. Someone could get hurt.”  
  
“Yeah, but…”

Bellamy feels his mouth twist up again, another unexpected smile that keeps some of his thoughts at bay and he knows what’s going to happen next. Monty buries his face in his glove. To mask his laughter. 

“Are you really him?”

“Sounds like you already know the answer to that.”  
  
“You’re Bellamy Blake,” Madi says, breathless. “Right?”

There’s a murmur of interest and something far too close to awe to be entirely comfortable, Monty’s shoulders noticeably shaking with the force of his laugh. Madi doesn’t move, shaking off her gloves so she can press her hands against the glass. She sticks her chin out, a steady sense of confidence that matches up to the woman still staring at him and Bellamy nods. 

“Whoa,” Madi breathes. “You’re—you think it was a good shot?”  
  
“Seeing my life flash before my eyes when it flew this way didn’t do you any favors.” Madi’s shoulders drop slightly. Bellamy stands up. “But, yeah. It was a good shot. You always have that much power on your backhand?” She nods, seemingly unable to formulate a response, which is some kind of twisted confidence boost for a fucked up NHL player still teetering on the edge of memory-induced panic attacks. “That’s insanely impressive,” Bellamy adds. “You know the crack in the window is mine.”  
  
“No!”  
  
“Guaranteed.”  
  
“I didn’t know that.”  
  
“That’s a pretty serious coach failing on Monty’s part.”

Monty glares. “I’m not trying to support breaking anything else in this barn.”

“How have they not fixed that yet?” Bellamy asks. “It can’t be helping your heating costs.”  
  
“We’re poor.”

Bellamy ignores that. “Madi, what do you get if you hit the crack?”

“First shift on the power play. So I could—”  
  
“—She wants to shoot from the circle,” another kid shouts, and the color that rises in Madi’s cheeks is impossibly red. Her hands fall away from the glass. “She’s totally obsessed with you!”

Madi mumbles a few objections under her breath, but none of them ring all that true and the woman hasn’t blinked in days. At least. Bellamy chances a glance in her direction, not sure if he’s going to apologize or introduce himself or ask if anyone has lost their mind solely because of the color of her eyes, but that last one seems a little insane and she starts talking first. 

“What the hell is going on?” 

Bellamy shuffles on his feet, squeezing one eye shut. Which is presumably not doing him any favors in the _not actually insane department_. He thrusts his right hand out. Nothing else happens. “Bellamy Blake,” he says, desperate to cut through some of the tension. “I cracked that window when I was fourteen.”  
  
“You’re speaking in tongues.”  
  
“I played here.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Here,” he repeats, like that will suddenly make everything clearer and Madi groans loudly. 

“Clarke! That’s—Bellamy Blake plays for the Rangers! He’s the best center in the league!”

It’s his turn to flush, heat in his cheeks and simmering at the base of his spine, a compliment Bellamy might think about for far longer than he will ever admit. If only because it is, once again, obvious how much this kid means it. 

That’s nice. 

He could use some nice. 

Maybe he’ll donate money to fix the window. 

“You play hockey?” the woman asks. “Like professionally?”  
  
“So they tell me.”  
  
“What are you doing in Arkadia?”  
  
“He lived here,” Madi answers, each letter louder than the last. Bellamy’s hand is still hanging in the air. “There are pictures of him downstairs.”  
  
Bellamy does his best to melt. It does not work. And that’s expected, but still a little disappointing because the woman is staring at him as if he must be a figment of her imagination and he can’t stop moving his fingers. 

She doesn’t take them. 

“But what are you doing here now?” she asks. “At my kid’s hockey practice?”  
  
“Ah, that wasn’t—” Bellamy stammers. “—I wasn’t...Monty told me to show up. You know, for the kids. I wasn’t trying to lurk.”  
  
“Yeah, that didn’t work,” Monty argues. “These were not the instructions he was given, Clarke.”  
  
Her name is Clarke. 

“There was some lurking involved,” Clarke says. 

“That wasn’t my goal.”  
  
"Was that a joke?”  
  
“No, I haven’t had nearly enough coffee for that.” She scoffs, but it doesn’t look like she’s going to throw another puck at his head, so Bellamy is going to take his victories where he can get them. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here,” he says, “Arkadia, I mean. And I wasn’t planning on heading over here, but I got in yesterday and—”  
  
“—You should be in the All-Star Game,” Madi yells. 

It’s been a very long time since Bellamy took a science class, so he’s not all that sure how the human body reacts to embarrassment and an influx of compliments, but he’s fairly certain his pulse is going to beat out of his body the longer he stands there. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. 

Octavia is going to be insufferable about this.

“Should you?” Clarke presses, and eventually he will hate himself for not asking her name. 

Bellamy clicks his tongue. “That’s a matter of debate. Nice to have a fan though.”

“And were you going to lurk at youth hockey practices the entire time you were here or…”  
  
“No, I had big plans to get drunk with my friends eventually.”  
  
“Wow.”  
  
“Something to be said for honesty, right?”  
  
“Something.”  
  
Her eyes go thin again—like she’s taking stock or inventory, and Bellamy almost doesn’t hear Madi at first. Impressive, since she’s banging hard enough on the boards to make them shake. “Bellamy, Bellamy, Bellamy, while you’re here—are you going to skate? Will you play?”  
  
He grimaces, the objection that immediately rises in the back of his throat decidedly uncomfortable. Because he doesn’t want to object. Not entirely. He wants—

God, he’s got no fucking idea. 

He’d like to fix the window, at least. 

“We’ll see,” he says. “I’m technically on vacation, so.” Clake laughs. She doesn’t even try to cover the sound, Bellamy arching an eyebrow at the sound. “What’s that?”  
  
“You came to Arkadia for vacation?”  
  
“Seems to be the running joke here.”  
  
“You can’t go home on vacation.”  
  
“Who says?” Bellamy challenges, a hint of frustration finding its way into the question. She crosses her arms. And Madi has to get off the ice. “Anyway,” he says, “I’m only here until the bye is over and I’m just trying to...relax.”  
  
Clarke doesn’t argue with him. He kind of wishes she would. 

It’s a really bad lie, after all. 

“You should probably find better places to relax than practices that aren’t yours,” she suggests. “Small town. People talk.”

“If he’d followed any of the rules, this wouldn’t have been a problem,” Monty hisses. Bellamy ignores that too. “And practice is over now, so. We’ll have to try again later this week.”

Bellamy nods, a last glance at blonde hair and far-too-blue eyes before she’s gone and his phone starts making more noise. 

* * *

**Octavia Blake, 1:42 p.m.** You’re a creep. 

**Octavia Blake, 1:43 p.m.** Did you actually get on the ice? Or just stare longingly at the crack in the window? That’s got some seriously deeper meaning, you know. 

**Octavia Blake, 1:43 p.m.** Niylah thinks so too. 

**Octavia Blake, 1:45 p.m.** Cracks in...your life or something. 

**Octavia Blake, 1:46 p.m.** Maybe don’t watch Skills tonight. 

**Octavia Blake, 1:47 p.m.** I know you’re going to watch Skills tonight. 

* * *

He’s been in The Dropship exactly twice in his entire life. 

When he got drafted and when he left Arkadia. 

The first time wasn’t legal, technically, but there is only one bar in Arkadia and only one place to get champagne at ten o’clock on a Thursday night and the second is still far too depressing to consider, so naturally every single thing about both nights seems to forcibly reach out and slap Bellamy across the face as soon as he walks inside. 

He’s fairly certain every adult who lives in Arkadia is there. 

They all turn around. 

“Shit,” Bellamy grumbles, resisting the urge to run back outside. He knows the story of the practice debacle has already spread across town, can feel every single stare as he walks towards the bar and Indra’s eyebrows refuse to obey the agreed upon laws of gravity. 

He takes another step inside. 

Every single TV is playing NBCSN. Figures. 

And for a moment, Bellamy isn’t sure anyone is going to actually say anything, just let Indra’s judgmental eyebrows do the metaphorical talking, but then he hears the jukebox click and the song changes and he can’t help whatever noise soars out of him. 

It’s distinctly nostalgic, whatever it is. Like summers when they were kids, days away from school, and afternoons spent in that hockey rink. Sneaking drinks from the cabinet in Murphy’s living room, sitting on the beach long after the sunset, and finding their way back even as the years stretched on, pickup hockey games with rules that were far too complex for a bunch of ragtag kids, and he still remembers every single word to this song. 

Bellamy shakes his head, less disbelief and more joy, running his fingers through his hair when Jasper steps forward to tug him further into the bar. “C’mon, Bell,” he mutters, “we’ve got plenty of prop bets for tonight’s extravaganza.”

It’s not a lie. It might even be an under-exaggeration. There’s a chart and a color-coded system that Bellamy finds more and more impressive the more shots he takes. His glass never seems to get empty. 

“Ok, ok,” Monty says, an arm slung around Harper, and his words are starting to slur. “Thoughts on fastest skater?”  
  
“That guy on the Kings is stupid fast,” Murphy says. “Way faster than Blake.”  
  
Bellamy flips him off. “This is not about me.”  
  
“Isn’t it, though?”  
  
Harper flicks some of her drink Murphy’s direction, but he smirks in response, and whatever noise Jasper makes does not sound particularly human. “Bell’s game was never speed,” he reasons. “Strength. Accuracy. He’d wreck the hardest shot competition. You know—again.”  
  
Bellamy tenses at the allusion, more memories he’s doing his best to drown in alcohol and metaphors, and the staring is back. Even Murphy looks like he’s about to apologize, which would almost be too much, so Bellamy taps the edge of his glass, downing whatever fills it in one quick gulp. 

It burns the back of his throat. 

“That was a long time ago,” he mutters. “Plus, we’re talking fastest skater now. Is one of the props who’s most likely to fall?”  
  
Jasper grins conspiratorially. “Give me that insider trading, Bell.”  
  
“Should I be worried about your degenerate-like tendencies?”  
  
“Only if I lose.”  
  
“At the risk of agreeing with Murphy on anything, ever—”  
  
“—Fuck you too, Bell,” Murphy growls.  
  
“That guy on the Kings is ridiculously fast. Especially when he hits that second straight-away. He’s going to win. Screw the Islanders guy.”  
  
“And that’s not some latent rivalries we’re using?” Jasper asks. Bellamy waves him off, but he’s started lying far too often and he might actually be drunk. The stool he’s sitting on keeps wobbling. Or, maybe him. He can’t really tell anymore. 

“The more things change, huh?” Harper grins. “Screw the Islanders, anyway.”

She holds her glass out, Bellamy ignoring the bar when he leans over to tap his. “I always liked you the best.”  
  
“I’m going to tell O you can’t handle your liquor anymore.”  
  
“Take video,” Murphy suggests, Monty trying to quiet him while he leans over the top of the bar for another bottle. 

“So, uh,” Jasper drawls, “are we not actually going to talk about this?”  
  
Bellamy’s jaw ticks. “About what?”  
  
“The monstrously large elephant in the room,” Murphy mumbles.  
  
“Your vocabulary?”  
  
“He’s got a girlfriend now,” Harper explains, “she’s way smarter than him.”

“What was that about the changing times?”

Bellamy laughs, and for a moment it’s normal. For a moment it’s nice and good and several other decidedly positive adjectives that he hasn’t allowed himself to consider in years. Which is, admittedly, less good. They must have put Under Pressure on loop. He hums along with the chorus, ignoring the throb in the back of his head when he starts bobbing to the music, eyes doing their best not to flit towards the TV screen or the things he didn’t get and things he messed up himself and—

The Islanders guy wins fastest skater. 

“Ah, fuck that guy,” Jasper shouts, most of the bar crying out in agreement. “Should we toast in dishonor of the New York Islanders and their inability to pick one place to play?”  
  
Bellamy’s lips twitch. “Scathing.”  
  
“You got a better idea?”  
  
“You guys haven’t really asked. Murphy doesn't count.”  
  
Monty shrugs. “Seemed like an asshole move. I mean—”  
  
“—We’ve talked about it,” Murphy cuts in. “For years. If you were going to come back. How we’d totally ignore you if you did. That maybe the whole thing was karma.”  
  
“You believe in karma, Murphy?” Bellamy asks. 

“Nah. And people are still obsessed with you here. So, uh—” He shrugs half-heartedly, like he’s giving up on some of that lingering and understandable animosity. “You’ve been through shit, Bell."

“And in Whoville, they say, the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day,” Harper quotes. Murphy flips her off. “We should toast to this, anyway.”  
  
Jasper nods enthusiastically, another round of shots and liquor that drops into the pit of Bellamy’s stomach with an almost audible thump. He nearly chokes when the door opens. 

She’s wearing different clothes than she was at practice. 

It wasn’t his practice. 

“God, what a lightweight,” Monty grumbles, but that only leaves Bellamy swallowing far too quickly and his eyes don’t leave Clarke as she moves, twisting between tables and people until she finds her way into the corner, smiling at the guy standing there. Bellamy feels his shoulders drop. 

“Huh,” Harper muses. “That’s a look.”

“A pining one,” Jasper adds. “What was that about taking a video to send to O?”  
  
“I will find a stick and shoot a slapshot directly at your face,” Bellamy growls. Jasper does not look all that intimidated. 

“If you were lurking at practice, you must have met Dr. Griffin, right?”  
  
“Doctor?”  
  
“Sounds like a no,” Jasper laughs. “Seriously did you just hide in the corner and watch kid practice hockey?”  
  
“No, no, no, that’s—an insane person would do that.”  
  
“You are spending your break in Arkadia.”  
  
“A good point,” Monty mumbles. “And he met her. Madi nearly took his head off trying to hit the crack in the window.”  
  
“Oh fuck, that’s romantic.”  
  
“Isn’t it, just?”

This is a disaster. 

He is a disaster. 

And drunk. Honestly, so drunk. 

“Fine, I will take pity,” Monty sighs. “Dr. Clarke Griffin and her daughter moved her a couple months ago. She was big-time in a big city, but I guess—much like you, professional hockey player Bellamy Blake, was looking for the quiet life. So she packed up her and her kid and took over the practice.”  
  
“What happened to the old guy?”  
  
“Really left an impact on you, huh?”  
  
“Also,” Jasper says, pointing towards the TV when another skill starts, “as you so gracefully pointed out, Bell. He was old. He wanted to retire. Clarke’s good, though. Nice. Mostly keeps to herself. Hasn’t killed anyone.”  
  
“Helpful in a doctor,” Bellamy snarks. She’s still talking to that guy. “And, uh—”  
  
“—That’s Jackson,” Harper finishes before he can embarrass himself anymore. “The other doctor she brought in. Also good. Also hasn’t killed anyone.”  
  
“We’ve got a real low death-by-doctor thing happening here,” Murphy says. “What’s the fastest you’ve clocked your slapshot at recently? You think you could wreck these guys?”  
  
Bellamy nods. “Easily.”  
  
“Ah, there’s the confident asshole we all know and love. So...you were lurking at practice and—”  
  
“—I wasn't really lurking.”  
  
“Try again,” Monty suggests. 

“Indra mentioned Madi. She was right about her being good at hockey. I mean, you suck at getting her to aim right, but—” Clarke realizes he’s staring at her. Bellamy tries to divert his gaze, not helped by the general hysterics of the peanut gallery behind him, and she doesn’t blink. 

Or look away. Which is either the worst thing that has ever happened to Bellamy, or the single greatest. He will decide at some point, he’s sure. 

Presumably after she moves across the bar again, muttering something to Jackson and Bellamy licks his lips when she stops just short of his shoes. 

“The professional hockey player,” she says, one side of her mouth tugging up. 

“You sound like you still don’t believe it.”  
  
“No, no, Madi made it very clear that you were very important.”  
  
“Past tense,” Murphy mumbles. More than a few people swat at him. 

Bellamy clenches his jaw, fighting back the urge to prove himself or his game, and that’s always been part of the problem. Desperate, some would say. Determined, he’d hope. And it’s usually not either one of those things, but rather something closer to desire, in its rawest form, and how much this game has shaped every single part of his life. 

No matter how much he wished it wouldn’t. 

Also past tense. 

“We watched highlight videos,” Clarke continues. “You can shoot.”  
  
“You’ll flatter me.”  
  
He doesn’t have to look to know that Harper is rolling her eyes—a retreat back to asshole that he’s found almost comforting in the last few seasons, the role he was supposed to play and the guy he’s supposed to be and Clarke still refuses to blink. 

“I came over here to apologize,” Clarke says. “Because I should be more aware of who my kid thinks is the greatest hockey player of all time. And also because you did move pretty quickly before, there could be...you know, muscle spasms.”

Murphy appears to be choking. 

Harper’s head falls again. 

Bellamy smirks out of habit, crossing his arms lightly over his chest. He doesn’t think he imagines the way Clarke’s gaze flits down. “I’m in pretty good shape, Doctor, but I appreciate the concern.”  
  
“Are you just a dick all the time, or…”  
  
“What highlights did you watch?”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“You get a drink yet?”  
  
“Are you kidding me?” Clarke balks. “Does this usually work for you?”  
  
“Let’s all hope not,” Murphy mutters. 

Bellamy’s face is going to freeze. There’s a joke about ice to be made. He ignores it in favor of standing up, closer to Clarke than he’s entirely prepared for and the flash in her eyes is enough to leave him stuck to the spot. “Not often,” he admits softly. The ends of her mouth quirk. “And like I said before. I’m fine. Madi was aiming for the window, not me. So no harm, no foul, and my muscles are not spasming at all.”  
  
“That was genuine concern.”  
  
“And I genuinely appreciate it. Hence the drink offer.”

Clarke stares at him for a moment, Bellamy almost nervous to breathe too loudly. He gets the sense she’s doing it again — inventory or stock or just concern that he really is the asshole he’s advertised as. If they watched highlights, she definitely googled his name. 

That sucks. 

“I’m not going to pay for it,” Clarke says. “You can afford drinks, right?”  
  
“That’s why I offered.”

“Yeah, ok.”

* * *

Bellamy buys more than one drink. At some point, Clarke demands she pay for something too and it’s almost too much for him to cope with, but then she’s wobbling on her feet and his hand is moving and he’s ninety-six percent positive he can feel the warmth radiating off her. 

Like it could melt ice. 

It’s another joke. 

Just as bad. 

They move away from his friends eventually — Jasper far too preoccupied with prop bets to care and Monty and Harper have to leave and Bellamy can only cope with Murphy on his own for so long, plus Clarke is…

He keeps smiling. 

It makes his cheeks ache. 

“So you haven’t been in Arkadia long, right?” Bellamy asks, quick to thank several deities that the question still sounds like English. 

“It’s weird to know someone’s life story before they offer it.”  
  
“And you’re a doctor?”  
  
“Your friends are gossips.”  
  
“Small town.”  
  
“With far too much alcohol.”

“Also a requirement,” Bellamy promises. “Where were you before, then?”  
  
“New York.”  
  
“No shit.”  
  
Clarke shakes her head, the hint of a smile lingering in the corners of her mouth. Bellamy might be staring at her mouth. He definitely would have won hardest shot. “Scout’s honor,” she says. “And, I uh—well, I guess Madi was a fan even before we got to Arkadia, which, don’t bother telling me that makes me a shitty and unaware mom, I’ve—”  
  
“—That’s not true.” He says it with enough conviction that for a moment Bellamy wonders who’s speaking. It’s still him. That’s nice. The tip of Clarke’s tongue finds in the inside of her cheek, anxiety in the movement. Less nice. 

Again. 

“You don’t know that,” she objects. “You don’t know anything about me.  
  
“You were worried about a stranger’s spasming muscles. That lands you in the camp of wholly nice, I think.”  
  
“As opposed to partially nice?”  
  
“You can be partially good and also a dick. Look at Murphy.”  
  
“Fuck off, Bell,” Murphy calls, throwing a towel his direction. Bellamy catches it. He’s going to brag about that forever, if only because it makes Clarke’s breath noticeably hitch. 

“Where’d you live in New York?” he asks. 

“Not near the Garden.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Uptown,” Clarke says. “I grew up uptown.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“Say that with less disdain, I dare you.”

Bellamy waves his hands. “Only some disdain and curiosity, I swear. So, uh you’re—”  
  
“—My mom runs the neuro ward at New York Presbyterian. She’s very important. Lots of pressure, lots of awards. But, uh—” She pulls in a breath, more emotions that do not belong in a bar with as much alcohol as The Dropship has. “You live near the Garden?”  
  
“No. Most of the guys without a family live downtown.”  
  
“And you don’t have that? A family?”  
  
It’s an unfairly large question. And another one Bellamy doesn’t have an answer to. At least not one he wants. So he shakes his head and downs the rest of his drink, flashing a half-hearted smile Clarke’s direction before saying, “You want to play air hockey?”

She laughs. 

It rings out, finds its way into the back corner of his brain and settles under his skin, times up with the unsteady beat of his heart and the nerves that never really leave, silences them for a moment, so he can focus solely on the sound and the way it makes her face light up. 

Enough to melt ice. 

“Are you really good at that too?” Clarke asks. 

“Better. C’mon.”  
  
Nothing ever changes in Arkadia, so Bellamy isn’t surprised to find that it takes more than a few minutes and a few more well-placed kicks for the air hockey table to hum to life. The one puck that has survived is dented in more than a few spots and he doesn’t want to consider all the reasons it’s also sticky, but Clarke is still smiling at him. 

So. It’s another victory. 

Until. 

She’s much better than he expected her to be. 

“Seriously,” she says, pointing at the lopsided score twenty minutes later, “you being a dick is now kind of your defining characteristic.”  
  
“I just wasn’t expecting to be taking on such an athlete.”

She laughs, dropping the puck and twisting her wrist. He gasps, lunging forward, but that only leaves the table finding its way into what may genuinely be his pancreas and he misses the puck entirely. “God, you’re so bad at this,” Clarke yells. There aren’t many people left in the bar, but Bellamy can just make out Murphy and the way he tries to hide his phone behind his back as soon as he lifts his head. 

Clarke scores again. 

“You said you were good,” she says. “This is almost historically bad.”  
  
“You have doctor’s hands. Quick reflexes or something.”  
  
“People pay you to play a sport.”  
  
“And I promise I am way better at that one.”  
  
“Sure, sure, so you say.”  
  
“Also,” Bellamy argues, “I haven’t played this in a really long time. So I think we should take that into consideration.”  
  
“Should we just?”  
  
He hums, missing wildly again. “Fucking hell. This table is broken.”

“Oh, so you’re an exceptionally bad loser, huh?”  
  
“What was that about being paid to play a sport? That’s kind of a requirement. Competitive streak and all that.”  
  
“Fuels the fire.”  
  
“Ah, so you know the cliches.”  
  
“I do have a hockey-playing kid.”  
  
Bellamy nods, groaning when the machine beeps. He’s lost. It’s not as bad as he would have expected it to be. “She really can shoot. If that was from ice, I can’t imagine what would happen when she’s actually aiming at the net.”  
  
“She’ll lose her mind if I tell her you said that.”  
  
“You should,” Bellamy says. “I mean—”  
  
“—You’re here for awhile, right?”

At some point in the last few seasons — after everything he did and everything he didn’t do, Bellamy stopped believing. In himself and his game and the idea that he was a good guy, who deserved the opportunities he’d already wasted. 

And yet. 

Something changes. Right there. In Arkadia. With Clarke Griffin staring expectantly at him and her daughter’s compliments ringing in his ears. 

And a broken air hockey table.

“Yeah,” he says. “Not an All-Star and, uh—we’ve got a bye, so I’m here for the next ten days or so. At least that’s what I’ve promised to pay Indra.”  
  
“You’re staying by the water?”  
  
“Calming, or so they say.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Nine out of ten doctors.”  
  
It gets another laugh — which was really his goal, until Clarke starts walking towards him and it’s all heat and metaphors and Bellamy briefly considers kissing her. He doesn’t. He freezes. 

It’s stupid. 

“I’m just saying,” Clarke mutters. “If you’ve got time and, you know—it’s not against your contract or anything. A whole team of kids would lose their shit if you showed up again. I know it won’t be the quiet you were hoping for, but—” She tilts her head. It makes her hair move. “Might be fun.”  
  
“Might be.”  
  
She purses her lips, a quick movement at her side that Bellamy realizes is her fingers. Fluttering, again. “Well, I’d at least be interested to see how good you are in person. And I’m usually there a little early. They don't have a trainer.”  
  
“Is that allowed?”  
  
“Probably not, but there’s also not a huge rush on small-town doctor hours. Plus, it doesn’t take me long to get across town if there’s an emergency.”  
  
“Makes sense.”  
  
He really should have kissed her. 

Clarke wavers for a moment, like she’s also waiting for something or, at least, understanding it, but then she’s taking a step back and grabbing her bag off the table and—“I’ll see you around, Bellamy Blake, professional hockey player.”

“See you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hai, internet. I'm back on my hockey nonsense (as if I was ever off it, really) and forcing my New York Rangers love onto a new fandom. This grew into a much longer story than I originally anticipated (which is something we all should really pretend to be surprised by) and is mostly just a mess of found family and sports emotions and Bellamy making eyes at Clarke. 
> 
> Updates coming on Friday and Tuesday from here on out. 
> 
> Come talk to me on on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down, where I am screaming over both Bellamy Blake's curls and the New York Rangers playoff hopes.


	2. Chapter 2

He has dreams about the coffee at Grounders. 

It’s a dumb name, and there are definitely things Bellamy knows he should miss more about Arkadia, but sometimes he’ll catch himself thinking about the creamer to coffee ratio and whatever they do to their espresso and it’s, frankly, absurd. In a good way. 

It’s also the only coffee place in Arkadia. 

Plus, they make chocolate croissants. Octavia has already demanded that he mail her chocolate croissants. Like, at least two dozen. 

Filling that order may help get his mind off Clarke Griffin. He keeps thinking about Clarke Griffin. 

Bellamy pushes open the door — not quite bustling inside, but enough people that he’s almost impressed at the Sunday morning crowd. He weaves his way towards the counter, more than a few smiles cast his direction and every one feels more genuine than the last. 

He hopes his bitterness doesn't affect the coffee. 

And he’s not really looking where he’s going, more focused on getting some form of caffeine and asking someone about bulk orders of baked goods and if he’ll have to bring them to the post office himself, so he doesn’t see her until it’s too late and his foot is on top of hers and his right hand moves almost immediately. 

As if there are magnets involved. 

It lands directly on Clarke’s waist. 

She drops her coffee. 

“Oh fuck,” Bellamy hisses, drawing a strangled scoff out of her that he absolutely deserves. “Shit, are you ok?” Her eyes flash, half a warning and half exasperation, but Bellamy’s apology gets stuck in his throat and the people around them are already jumping into action. 

Quite literally. 

There are napkins and promises to _get you another one, Doc_ , towels thrown and a guy in an apron ducks down, mopping up the puddle as quickly as it appeared.

“We’ve got to find a less violent way to keep running into each other,” Clarke mutters.

Bellamy makes his own sound, a little stunned that his shoes aren’t covered in coffee. “Was that particularly violent?”

“You killed my coffee.”

“That wasn’t my goal. I can guarantee it wasn’t preordained.”

“Are you secretly funny?”

“Absolutely.”

Her shoulders shake when she laughs, tongue swiping the front of her teeth in the process and he’s got to stop staring at her mouth. It’s an admirable goal, at least. “And modest, I see,” Clarke grins. “That’s probably an athlete thing too, right?”

“Well we did talk about my hatred of losing already.”

“I’m not sure humor and being a bad sport go hand-in-hand.”

“And I’m still not convinced the table wasn’t broken.”

“Those double negatives.”

“I think you kept up,” Bellamy says, and he’s never actually moved his hand. Neither one of them mention that. 

“Compliments?”

“Well, I did destroy your coffee.”

Clarke’s eyes get brighter. That’s the only explanation for whatever happens next, the fluttering in Bellamy’s stomach and the general vicinity of his heart, a lightness in the center of his chest that he hasn’t felt in...he can’t remember. Maybe when he was twenty-one. 

“You did,” Clarke agrees, “but I’m pretty much a regular here and it’s honestly embarrassing how much money I spend weekly, so I’m leaning towards the idea that they’re just...going to give me new coffee.”

“Wow, so you’re really important, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“The doctor-princess of Grounders?”  
  
“Oh, you’re not secretly funny. You actually think you’re funny.”  
  
He’s really got to move his hand. He doesn’t move his hand. He glances at Clarke’s instead, her fingers curled around a bag he didn’t notice she was holding. “What are you eating?” Bellamy asks. “And is Madi here?”

“Nah, she stayed with the team last night. They do this bonding thing almost every weekend, if they don’t have tournaments. Pasta, horror movies they’re not supposed to watch, a distinct lack of sleep. That’s why I could kick your ass at air hockey.”

“You know, I don’t think you’re a benevolent princess at all.”

They’re ruining the flow of customers in this place. 

People kept twisting around them, bumping Bellamy’s shoulder and his still-bent elbow, but no one actually tells them to move and he’s not sure if that’s the inherent politeness required of most small towns in America or because people are watching them. So they can gossip. 

It’s very likely the second one. 

“Well, you suck at air hockey,” Clarke says, waving the bag in his face, “and these are chocolate croissants that I am buying solely for myself.”

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever had these chocolate croissants?”

Bellamy nods, an unfamiliar feeling moving down either one of his arms. Like heat, a soft warmth that slinks under his skin and around muscles that haven’t spasmed once in the last twenty-four hours, but feel distinctly different than they did seventy-hours before and—

“These are the greatest chocolate croissants in the history of the world,” Clarke announces. “It’s—they’re...I am addicted to them.”

“Is that healthy, Doctor?”

“No, not at all. But my kid always steals them when I bring them home. So—” She shrugs, a hint of guilt in her lopsided smile. Bellamy glances down to make sure he hasn’t actually burst into flames. “I bought four, I will probably eat four and then eventually pick Madi up from practice.”

“Shit, they practice again?”

“It’s really serious travel hockey. Are you going to lurk at practice again?”  
  
“I wasn’t the first time.”  
  
“Eh.” Clarke tilts her head, an appraising look that makes him wonder if he’s managed to fuck absolutely everything up in the last sixteen seconds, but then her smile widens again and—“You could head over there with me,” she ventures, “you know, if you wanted to. I—well, they won’t be done for awhile, but…”  
  
“Oh,” Bellamy laughs, “you lurk too!”  
  
“Ok, that’s not what I said. I have an excuse. Plus, I told you. I am a medical professional. What if something happens? And they need a doctor?”  
  
“Yuh huh.”

“How come you haven’t bought coffee yet?”  
  
“I’m talking to you.”  
  
Flirting, really. But that’s neither here nor there and Clarke laughs again, softer this time, like she’s also settling into the sound or her own feelings. Bellamy hopes he doesn’t imagine the way she leans forward. Until. Her free hand finds the front of his jacket, flat against his chest and he knows he’s smiling like an idiot. 

An under-caffeinated idiot. 

“It’s a good point,” Clarke says. “Although you haven’t actually responded to my invitation either. That’s rude.”  
  
“Is that what it was?”  
  
“Was that not obvious?”  
  
Bellamy hums, wondering if the muscles in his face can actually freeze mid-smile. It’d freak out the rest of his team. “Getting there. Also, I know more ways to sneak into the rink than you do. But I’m getting coffee first. Or I may fall over.”

“Let’s avoid that, then. It’s too early for me to be doling out my medical talents, anyway.”  
  
Flirting, definitely. 

He’s still not on fire. 

It continues to be the most surprising part of Bellamy’s morning. 

“You want any other baked goods or are you set with your current bounty, Princess?”  
  
“You’re a jerk.”  
  
“This is being nice.”  
  
Clarke sticks her lower lip out when she nods, a quick rap of her knuckles against his jacket. “Buy your own baked goods and coffee, professional hockey player.”

He salutes — which isn’t the lamest thing he’s ever done, but is certainly in the top five, the guy behind the counter, whose name might be Riley, coughing pointedly because he’s definitely tried to give Clarke her new coffee half a dozen times already. There are two cups in his hand. “Here,” maybe-Riley says. “I don’t know how you drink this when it’s mostly creamer, Bell, but hopefully it’s still good.”

Bellamy blinks. Several times. “Oh, uh—thanks. That’s...can I bulk-order your croissants, or…”  
  
“For O?”  
  
“Is everyone in this town a soothsayer?”  
  
“Good word,” Clarke mutters. 

Maybe-Riley shakes his head. “I think she’s covering her bases. Monty and Harper were here before and she definitely texted them too. Just in case you forgot.”

“So she’s out there insulting me before ten in the morning on a Sunday, huh?”

“Something like that, for sure. You should have made the All-Star game.”  
  
Bellamy’s smile doesn’t feel natural. Maybe the muscles are frozen now. “Thanks,” he says again, stuffing a few bills in the tip jar. “I won’t forget about the croissants. You good, Clarke?”  
  
She nods, a little jerky, like she’s surprised to be involved in the conversation, but then Bellamy’s hand finds the small of her back before his brain can even begin to process that and they’re moving, out the door and away from the stares that follow them the entire way. 

* * *

To her credit, Clarke waits until they get off Main Street to start sending furtive glances in his direction.

Bellamy ignores it. 

For approximately fourteen seconds. 

He doesn’t count. That would be insane. 

He finishes his coffee instead, eyes straight in front of him, following another path that’s burned into several different parts of his subconscious, until—

He sighs. 

“Ok. Go ahead.”  
  
Clarke’s eyes widen. He’s still not looking at her. He can tell. Which might also be insane, but he would swear the air around them gets heavier, as if it’s suddenly aware of the impending conversation and they’ve already made it to the rink. 

“Are you giving me permission to talk?” Clarke asks archly. “And you didn’t ever buy any baked goods. I think that’s a pretty solid commentary on your current state of mind.”  
  
“Do you just?”  
  
She hums, a quick nod on the edge of his vision that he only notices because the sun manages to hit her hair a very specific way. Like it’s reflecting off the strands. “I do,” Clarke says. “Is there—I mean, you’ve got to know I googled you, right?”  
  
“Before or after air hockey?”  
  
“Little bit of both.”  
  
“In some other situation that may almost be an insult”  
  
“I still asked you to come with me while I lurked at Madi’s hockey practice.”  
  
He stops walking. And he’d finished his coffee streets ago, but Bellamy finds himself wishing he had several mugs of it, if only to give himself something to do with his hands and the sudden rush of anxiety that curls itself around either one of his wrists. “Yeah,” he breathes, “you did. That was nice.”  
  
“I can be nice.”  
  
“I’m not disputing that.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“How do you know there’s a but?”  
  
“I don’t,” Clarke admits. “And you don’t really have to talk about it if you don’t want to. You have friends and—who’s O, exactly?”  
  
“My sister.”  
  
“And she’s not here?”  
  
“Nah. She’s been gone for years too. Not even in the same time zone right now.”

“Still wants croissants though?”  
  
“I’m going to get her the croissants,” Bellamy says, hating his own conviction when he says it. As if not getting Octavia something would be the end of the world. 

And Clarke’s eyebrows jump before she can entirely school her features, like she heard everything he didn’t actually say. Yet. It’s very easy to talk to her. Even when they’re not flirting. “Right,” she says slowly, “I’m curious, though. And I think—”  
  
Her tongue darts between her lips, another movement into his space and the wind picks that very particular moment to blow directly around the corner. It smells like raspberries. “You’re a good hockey player, Bellamy. Every single thing I found on the internet promised that. High-level, oh shit was the term?”  
  
“Prospect,” he rasps. “One of the top names coming out of US development camp.”

“Right, right, and that means what, exactly?”  
  
“I’m good at winning faceoffs.”  
  
“Madi doesn’t do that.”  
  
“Where does she play?”  
  
“Wing now, but they had her on defense when she first started. She, uh—well, she kind of liked to hit people.”  
  
“It’s a good sport for that.”  
  
“Yeah, and I get that, but she’s a kid, you know?” Bellamy nods. He does. On some deeper level that he would need far more coffee to discuss. “She’d been playing before. In New York, I mean and—then, uh…” Clarke trails off, an unspoken admission that feels a bit like the puck getting stuck in the corner of the boards. Right there and directly out of reach. “Anyway,” Clarke continues, “we moved here and I wasn’t sure if she was going to be able to keep playing because—”  
  
“—It’s Virginia?”  
  
“Isn’t this lacrosse country?”  
  
“Oh, don’t say that too loud,” Bellamy laughs, ignoring the myriad of questions swirling in the back of mind. Madi never called Clarke mom. “They’ll run you out of town.”  
  
“Girls lacrosse isn’t as much fun anyway. So, we moved here and Madi wasn’t super happy, which I felt like a dick about, but then she found this place. And she met Indra—”  
  
“—God, of course she did,” Bellamy interrupts.

Clarke tilts her head. “How do you know Indra?”  
  
“She’s the one who found me. Well, found O, first. She’d gotten in a fight at school. And Indra knows everyone in this town. Someone at school told her about it, there was some discussion of anger management and—” HIs mouth goes dry. “They sent O to the rink. Work out that residual emotion, you know?”

No response. Bellamy licks his lips.  
  
“Anyway, O started skating for Indra’s team. She owns the rink.”  
  
“I know that.”  
  
“Right, right, right. And she wasn’t very good to start. Octavia, I mean. I kept coming to practice. Pick her up, walk her back home. Make sure she didn’t break anyone’s nose. I think Indra took pity on me. She lent me some skates, gave me a stick and told me to try and hit the net.”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
“Several times in a row.”

Clarke makes another sound that might be an agreement or just the quiet encouragement to keep talking, an understanding that shouldn’t be possible in twenty-four hours. He takes a deep breath, lets the air fill his lungs until it feels as if he’ll burst, the cold stinging his nose and that previously discussed state of mind and she doesn’t actually blink, just keeps staring and waiting and her fingers are almost warm when Bellamy reaches for them. 

“C’mon,” he says. “There’s a back door no one knows about that leads to the basement. We can sneak in through there.”

She doesn’t let go of his hand. Or the other way around. And there’s still some snow behind the rink, probably because that’s somehow also Monty’s responsibility and Clarke’s feet slide more than once, bumping into Bellamy’s side with a frequency that makes it impossible for him to take another deep breath. 

“Is this door not going to be locked?” Clarke asks, voice dropping like they’re actually doing something secret. 

“What part of no one knowing about it was confusing?”  
  
“Seriously, you’re a jerk.”

He grins at her, fully expecting and appreciating the scowl he gets in return, and it takes a moment to kick away some of the snow from the door. Clarke’s right foot slides across a patch of ice, her breath catching loudly when her arms dart out — directly around Bellamy’s middle.

“Fuck,” she hisses. “You know, when I agreed to this quest, I did not think I would be taking my life into my hands.”  
  
“I thought you were a doctor. We’re all safe from any injuries with you on our side.”  
  
“You’re far too confident in your own humor.”  
  
Bellamy shakes his, but she’s still holding onto him and something about this has to be wrong. It has to. He’s a horrible pessimist. 

Or, a good pessimist. 

Double negatives are confusing. 

“How are you not falling over?” Clarke presses. “Do you repel ice or something?”  
  
“Is that how you think hockey works?”  
  
“I’m going to punch you.”  
  
“You’ll fall over,” Bellamy argues, leaning around her to twist the door handle. It’s not locked. “See,” he grins, “told you.”  
  
“You’re a genius. And looking more and more like a serial trespasser.”

“You’ve got a lot of very pointed opinions, Princess.”  
  
“Is that a thing that you’re to keep doing?”  
  
“I really do think I’m hysterical.”

Clarke groans, ducking under his arm to step into the basement and the air still smells the same as it did the day before — musty and heavy, like it’s weighed down with the force of Bellamy’s memories and he has to blink a few more times to get acclimated to the dim light. “If there are spiders down here,” Clarke hisses, “I will never forgive you.”  
  
“There weren’t the last time I was down here.”  
  
“And when was that?”  
  
“Uh...more than a decade ago.”  
  
She sticks her tongue out. And reaches into the paper bag he almost forgot she was holding, grabbing something that—

Hits his right cheek. 

“Did you just throw a piece of chocolate croissant at me?” Bellamy asks incredulously. “That’s an incredible waste of food.”  
  
“Why were you sneaking into the basement?”  
  
“You weren’t kidding about the curiosity.”  
  
“I’ll give you half a croissant.”  
  
Bellamy pauses mid-step — between a pile of clearly ancient sticks and a goal with ripped netting — turning slowly because he doesn’t trust himself to do anything else, and he can’t actually see all of Clarke’s face, but there’s just enough light to see the specific glint in her eye and the hint of determination, like she actually wants to know or is genuinely interested and—

He flips his wrist. 

“Let’s at least get out of the basement.”  
  
Her fingers are still warm. 

And they nearly knock over several things on their way to the stairs, Bellamy making several mental notes to call Monty out on his hoarding, but then there’s another door and a limited amount of space and the stupid thing is locked. 

“Told you,” Clarke mumbles. “So what do we do now?”  
  
Bellamy considers his response. He does, honestly. And it would make sense to leave. To go in through the front door and stand on the side, or even more sense for him to go back and order Octavia’s goddamn croissants, but he doesn’t do either of those things and he doesn’t want to, wants to keep talking to this girl with hair that might be able to reflect the sun, answer her questions and sate her curiosity and it’s far too easy to bend his knees. 

He sits down. 

“What’s your first question?”

“You’re giving me far too much power,” she whispers, dropping next to him and there are already croissant flakes on his jeans. 

“You said you were curious.”  
  
“Yeah, but—”

“—You know, my friends said they talked about it. Me coming home. If I ever would. I bet Jasper ran odds on it.”  
  
“Why didn’t you? Come home, I mean. When did you even leave?”  
  
“Technically? When I went to developmental. Sixteen-year-old kid, spent most of the year in someone else’s house in Michigan. Octavia moved in with Indra and—”  
  
“—what happened to—”  
  
“—Mom died,” Bellamy says quickly, like that will make the words easier. “A couple months before. She’d been sick for awhile. Working even when she could barely stand up. It was, fuck, it was a mess, but she tried, I guess. And I kept playing. Like that could make a difference.”  
  
“It did.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
“Professional hockey player.”  
  
He’s grateful for the shitty basement lighting, if only so it masks the flush in his cheeks. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Where was I?”  
  
“Michigan.”  
  
“Ann Arbor,” Bellamy amends. “You go live there, spend most of your day playing. You’re not even really a kid anymore. Barely any school, just games and tournaments, getting better. Getting...perfect. And O stayed here.You know, a lot of guys don’t get drafted before college.”  
  
“And you did.”  
  
“Doesn’t sound like a question.”

“I googled you.”

He lets out a mirthless chuckle, running his fingers through his hair. The stairs are surprisingly comfortable. It might not have anything to do with the stairs. “Fair. But yeah—drafted when I was seventeen and I did come home for that. But then there were more practices and more expectations and I was—”  
  
“—Going to change US hockey,” Clarke finishes. “I read those stories too.”  
  
“How did you manage all this research between practice, trashing me at air hockey and actually going to bed?”

She bites her lip. “I didn’t.”  
  
“You sleep at all last night?”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
“Better than I have in months,” he answers honestly. 

“When did it change, then?”  
  
“When did what change?”  
  
“Hating the game.”

Bellamy sits up straighter, spine snapping almost audibly in to place when the rush of absolutely every single human emotion rushes down it. “I don’t hate hockey.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“Resent it, maybe, but I don’t hate it. I can—I’ve only ever been able to breathe when I’m on the ice. That’s...being good at that game,” he shakes his head, and his fingers had never left his hair. He tugs. Hard. “That’s the only thing I’ve ever done.”

Silence. 

Very loud, possibly judgmental silence. 

Bellamy stares ahead, counts seconds and inhales that don’t do much to assuage the tightness in his chest, a tension he’s started to depend on because he can’t remember being without it. Clarke clicks her teeth, and it takes another four seconds for her to move. 

Her hand lands on his thigh. 

With the croissant flakes. 

And she doesn’t ask another question, just lets the warmth of her skin seep through fabric and possibly into Bellamy, which is also kind of a disgusting thought, but it’s a better thought than his usual ones and—

“I fucked it all up,” he whispers.

“I don’t think that’s true.”  
  
“You don’t know anything about me.”  
  
“And yet you’re already coming up with ridiculous nicknames for me. And breaking and entering.”  
  
“We’ve seriously got to teach you how trespassing actually works.”  
  
“How often did you sneak in here so you could shoot at that net some more?”  
  
“There isn’t a number for that.”

Clarke smiles. “Figured.”  
  
“It’s a really shitty and decidedly depressing story.”  
  
“I’ve got time.”  
  
“You’re going to—”  
  
“—Oh, no, no, no,” Clarke objects, “you get to claim ignorance from me, then I get the same thing. You’re right, I don’t know you aside from my—”  
  
“—Google stalking?”  
  
“Well, it sounds crazy when you say it like that. Plus, it’s well within my parental rights to figure out who my kid is idolizing.”  
  
“She might want to pick someone else.”  
  
“The self-deprecating only stays cute for so long.”  
  
He licks his lips again. Clarke bites hers. Again. “You think I’m cute, Princess?”  
  
“Is the punching and or kicking threat not all that threatening because you’re a hockey player and that’s like...your life?”  
  
“A little,” Bellamy admits. “But I’m usually the one doing the punching in those scenarios.”  
  
“Yeah, I read that.”  
  
He hisses in a breath, steeling himself for the words that seem to fall out of him. “I made the team out of camp. Eighteen and I’d never been to New York before. Scared the shit out of me when I got there. How big everything was and loud and there were just...people everywhere. But then I’d get on the ice and it was like everything slowed down. I could play with those guys, even when I was a kid. Still quick on the one-timer and up the ice, finesse was never really my game, but I could score. Find shooting lanes no one else could see.

“And it was good for awhile. O graduated high school and she got into college and I’d come home during the off-season. Not for long, but I’d still talk to my friends and I wasn’t a dick yet.”  
  
“Yet?” Clarke echoes.

“It hits all the high-points of melodrama. Guy meets girl. Guy likes girl. She’s nice and sweet, looks good in his jersey.” Clarke scoffs, and Bellamy’s voice is starting to crack. “Gina was...fuck, normal sounds like an insult. It’s not. She was—she kept me _me_. When everything else was spinning. Headlines and playoff runs and five seasons in we made the Cup Finals. That was it. That was the moment. To prove it.”  
  
“It?”  
  
“You keep repeating me.”  
  
“Well, I think you’re being vague on purpose.”  
  
He doesn’t laugh. There’s nothing funny about this. And it’s far too much information for a person who is still a stranger, really, but Bellamy’s shoulders shift and his vision has gone a little glossy. “You’re very blunt, you know that?”  
  
“My mother would agree with you.”  
  
“I’m not sure I want to be lumped in with your mother.”  
  
Clarke scrunches her nose. Bellamy will probably think about that for far longer than he should.

“I don’t want you to think that Gina—well, it’s shitty to use her as an excuse for anything I did. I just...we lost. Five-game series and the one game we won wasn’t even a good game. I didn’t score once and we lost in New York and she was there. She’d—she didn’t miss a playoff game. I couldn’t do anything after it was over. Sat at my locker like the whole thing had been some nightmare I’d wake up from and she kept trying to get me to leave.”  
  
“You didn’t?”  
  
Bellamy shakes his head. He hopes Clarke doesn’t notice how quickly he’s blinking. She never actually moved her hand. “I told her to leave,” he croaks. “Got her a cab and—she was gone.”  
  
He doesn’t say anything else. 

Can’t. 

Because gone is far more literal than he’ll ever be able to come to terms with — one ride uptown and shitty things happen every day, maybe more often in New York because of population or something else he refuses to think about, a mugging gone wrong and a moment he can’t get back and—

“It was my fault,” he says. “The whole fucking thing was my fault. I should have left with her.”  
  
Clarke squeezes her hand. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“What?”

“Dumb. I mean—don’t get me wrong, I understand, like, way more than you realize, but it’s also insane to think that any of that was your fault. Like not scoring in one playoff series made sure your girlfriend died? That doesn’t even make any sense.”  
  
He jumps up, vision suddenly sharp and decidedly red, but Clarke doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t blink, just tilts her head up and sets her lips in a thin, straight line and they both know there’s more to the story. 

“When did you start becoming the puncher, then?”  
  
“That’s not the right term at all.”  
  
“I still only kind of understand how icing works,” Clarke admits. “And goalie interference is like a foreign language.”  
  
Bellamy sighs, moving two steps down the stairs. “No one understands it, that’s why.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So. The season ended and I—I don’t know. There’s nothing I can say that will rationalize it. I was pissed and...empty, I guess. And I got back on the ice and it was like everything had changed. I started hitting a little harder. Led with my shoulder. Went for the head. Every dirty, shitty thing I could. Just to get that edge. To win.”  
  
“And did you?”  
  
“You keep asking questions you already know the answer to.”  
  
“Madi told me that, actually. Never even made it back to an Eastern Conference Final, huh?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “Barely even made it out of the first round last year. And that’s only made it worse. I’m—God, Jordan was right, my forecheck is shit.”  
  
“You say that like I know what it means.”  
  
“We’ll get there,” he says before he can stop himself. Before he can consider joint pronouns and unspoken guarantees he’s not at all ready to make. Clarke smiles. “But, uh,” Bellamy adds, “the high point of this story comes about two years after Gina died. I got into a fight. Third period, blowout game. Some kid chirping in my ear the whole night. Talking about my shit stat line and losing and it was like going crazy. Like I was—I wanted to take his head off.”  
  
“That would be impressive. You know, medically.”

“Don’t. That’s—he dropped gloves first. But I didn’t stop. I could hear it, Clarke. When his jaw broke. I hit him and the crack was so goddamn loud. Like it was in me, too. Maybe it was. That was—shit, that’s melodramatic, isn’t it?”  
  
Clarke nods. 

“I kept going. Even after the blood and I knew something was wrong. And there were so many people, trying to pull me off, get the kid away from me. I didn’t let ‘em. It was like if I did this, I wouldn’t feel it anymore.”  
  
“Did that work?” Clarke asks softly. 

“Nah. And it’s only gotten worse. I don’t—I'm still trying to prove something. After the suspension and the new reputation. The goon. The fighter. Dirty. That’s what they call me all the time now. They say I play dirty.”  
  
“That’s why you stopped coming home.”  
  
“That’s not a question.”  
  
“Because I get it.”  
  
“Do you?” 

“This isn’t my story.”

Bellamy grunts, only one of his knees cracking when he sits back down. “I came home after I got suspended. Hid in my mom’s house for a week straight. No one had been there in years, but I knew Octavia had kept it from falling apart while I was gone and then Indra, even when no one asked her. Especially when no one asked here. Sat on the porch and drank my way through as much alcohol as I could until Murphy showed up and told me to stop wallowing and we got drunk at The Dropship instead. 

And that was it. I decided then. This place...a different person grew up here. He wouldn’t have done the shit I have. Would have—he would have hated that guy. My mom...she would have hated that guy. So I decided to sell the house and I went back to New York and that was the last time I was here. I kept in touch for awhile, but that was seasons ago. I had no idea Monty was coaching or Murphy buying The Dropship. O left before I did. She was...is, even...this place is too small for her. She wants the world and she’s going to get it. And I’m just—”  
  
“—Here again,” Clarke whispers. 

“They bumped me to third line. That’s—I know that shouldn’t feel like the end of the world, but it’s been forever. Seasons and past-track record and I had a meeting with player safety a couple months ago. Told me to make sure I was careful. People were watching. Waiting for me to fuck it all up again.”  
  
Whatever noise Clarke makes doesn’t sound particularly judgmental, more like she’s considering those particular words in that particular order. 

“Madi thinks you’re the greatest center in the world. That was shouted several times last night.”

“Quick wrists,” Bellamy explains. “Helps win faceoffs. And get that shot off before someone can block it.”  
  
“So Indra has said.”  
  
“She knows what she’s talking about.”  
  
“So do you, I think.”  
  
“You can’t be serious.”  
  
“Wow, rude.”  
  
He rolls his whole head, a flutter of annoyance because she can’t just be fine with this. He’s not fine with this. He came home. “I don’t want to be this,” Bellamy admits, lips hardly moving with the size of his admission. “I wanted to—”  
  
“—Find a shooting lane?”  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
“That’s not a bad thing.”  
  
“You’re impossibly generous.”  
  
“Flatter me some more, please.”

“Well, you did share your croissant.”

Clarke’s laugh sails out of her, bounces off the walls and the spider webs that are inevitably in that basement. “I want you to remember that for at least the next two seconds. And then think about a kid who wasn’t even supposed to be on the ice finding a place there. Who was absolutely good enough because I’ve looked up professional percentages and getting to the NHL, especially in the US, is stupid hard. You won, Bellamy. Just by skating.”  
  
He’s already sitting on the same stair Clarke is, so it doesn’t take much for Bellamy to lean forward, crowding into her space and the air shifts again. Like it also realizes something is happening. His eyes flicker across her face, looking for something he’s not altogether sure he wants to find, like she’ll shout surprise or act on that punching threat. She doesn’t do either. 

She swallows.  
  
Bellamy can see it, the way her throat shifts slightly and her jaw tenses just a bit, a sharp inhale that makes it impossible for him to catch his breath. 

And it shouldn’t be this easy. 

To talk to her. To meet her gaze without the worry that’s been sitting in the pit of his stomach for as long as he can remember. To be anything but exactly what he is. A hockey player. And desperate for that to be enough. 

So, really, it shouldn’t be easy to lean forward, to duck his head and press his lips to hers, but Arkadia’s never made much sense and for the first time in _seasons_ Bellamy lets himself want something. 

Clarke. 

He wants Clarke. 

Bellamy's eyes flutter shut almost immediately, falling into the feel of her against him. Clarke’s lips part, a huff of warm air against his cheek, and as far as first kisses go, it’s not his best work. There’s no sear. No shift in the Earth’s gravitational pull. The force behind it isn’t much more than a simmer, like low heat and something that would only melt ice after prolonged contact. It’s soft, simple and just as easy as sharing depressing backstories. 

Until. 

He’s very grateful for that. 

Clarke’s fingers dart forward, finding his hair and the back of his head, light scratches that leave Bellamy gasping and her laughing and he can smell it again. Raspberries. Her knee bumps his when they rock forward, but Bellamy barely registers the movement, dropping his mouth to her jaw instead while he tries to touch as much of her arching back as he can. 

She makes another noise, and the sound lights up every corner of his brain, like that’s actually the basement. It’s another melodramatic thought and one he refuses to linger on when he’s this close to getting his fingers under her jacket, but then there’s a clicking lock and creaking hinges and—  
  
“Are you fucking kidding me?”  
  
Clarke jerks back like she’s been shocked, which—fair. Bellamy’s lips feel like they’re buzzing, but that may just be his skin or possibly his entire being and Monty is red faced from his attempts to swallow back his laugh. 

“Did you break in here?” he asks, Clarke mouthing _told you_ again. Bellamy huffs. 

“Lock your basement door, then.”  
  
“Practice is over. You know, again. So, uh—”  
  
“—Is Madi still on the ice?” Clarke interrupts. 

“Taking extra shots from the circle.”

“Right.” She stands up quickly, adjusting the hem of her jacket and grabbing the half-finished bag of croissants. “I’ll—” Clarke’s tongue flashes, and Bellamy can only think about that for so long before he’s certain he will, in fact, burst into flames, and he needs Monty to leave. Five seconds ago. “You want to practice faceoffs or something?” Clarke asks, and it takes Bellamy a moment to realize he’s talking to him. “It’d make Madi’s week.”  
  
Monty’s eyes are going to fall out of his head. 

It’s what he deserves, really. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bellamy stammers. “I don’t have any skates, though.”  
  
“You need that?”  
  
“Not really.”  
  
“Ok, let’s go.”

* * *

“Not a word,” Bellamy growls, and it’s far brighter in the hallway than the basement. 

Monty holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”  
  
“I could hear it.”  
  
“I am admittedly thinking several thousand things, but I have not given them voice.”  
  
“Small miracles.”  
  
Monty snorts, turning the corner towards the ice and Bellamy doesn't think he imagines him reaching for his back pocket. And his phone. He can already hear pucks hitting the edge of the boards. 

There’s music playing. 

* * *

Bellamy does briefly debate challenging Monty to a fight. 

Or a duel. 

Grab your metaphorical pistols and meet at center ice. If only because the music in the background is the same music it always is at this piece of garbage rink and he cannot believe he and Clarke just did that. 

Made out. That’s the term for it, really. 

Technically. 

He’d like to do it again. On loop. 

And Madi barely lifts her head when the door slams shut behind them, swinging with near-wild abandon at the small pile of pucks next to her right skate blade. “How many did she start with?” Bellamy mutters.

“At least four dozen,” Monty says. 

“Mmhm.” 

The three of them move forward, stepping onto the bench, and neither Clarke nor Monty follow when Bellamy swings his legs over the boards. His feet don’t slide. He doesn’t skid. He barely misses a step when he moves, the pinch between Madi’s eyebrows made all the more obvious because she’s tossed her helmet halfway across the rink. 

He grins. 

“Going for power, huh?” Bellamy asks lightly, and Madi spins so quickly it looks more like a figure skating move than anything. Her eyes widen, mouth opening and closing quickly. “It’s a good idea,” Bellamy presses, “when you know you can, but just forcing the puck isn’t always your best bet either.”  
  
For as big as Madi’s eyes had just been, they narrow even quicker — an expression that’s far too much like Clarke to help Bellamy’s breathing. They were very good at making out. 

“I can shoot hard,” Madi shrugs. “Get the puck up.”  
  
Bellamy hums, crooking a finger until she realizes he wants her stick. Madi doesn’t give it up immediately, not until Clarke coughs pointedly from the bench, and one side of Bellamy’s mouth tugs up. “I promise it’ll be worth it,” he says. “Because you’re right. You do want to elevate. Get the puck up over the goalie’s shoulder, over a defender when they dive, but you got to get them to do that first.”  
  
“That doesn’t make any sense.”  
  
“How often do your shots get blocked?” Madi scowls. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I wasn’t lying yesterday. You’ve got a crazy shot and if this is you shooting when you’re—how old are you, actually?”  
  
“Twelve.”  
  
That math doesn’t add up. He glances at Clarke, her arms crossed and head at an angle. The depressing backstories had been distinctly one-sided. 

“He could barely stick-handle when he was twelve,” Monty yells, and Madi can’t stop herself from laughing. Bellamy’s still staring at Clarke. 

“That’s not true,” he grumbles. “I just wasn't very good yet. The point I’m making here is that just focusing on power is going to make you...predictable.”

“If they want to keep blocking my shot, they’re going to get hit,” Madi reasons. 

“Yeah, that’s true. And everyone else on the ice will know that too. Your team included. You plant yourself in this circle and people are going to know what’s coming.”  
  
“Ovechkin still scores.”

“She brings up a good point, Bell,” Monty says. 

Bellamy glares at him. “Ok, Ovechkin aside—and, like, you start shooting a slap shot like Ovechkin and I will...I don’t know, eat one of those pucks.”  
  
“Promise?” Madi asks. 

Bellamy’s eyes are the ones that are going to fall out. Directly onto the ice. “Jeez,” he gasps, “yeah, ok, I promise. You want to learn a move or, no?”

“Is it yours?”  
  
He’s glad he’s holding the stick. If only so he has something to rest most of his weight on when his knees decide they don’t really want to function anymore, bent awkwardly underneath him, and Bellamy hopes whatever movement causes his hair to shift is actually a nod. 

“A long time ago.”  
  
“What do I have to do?”  
  
“Ok,” Bellamy starts, stepping into the familiar spot in the circle. “So, the idea is you keep the power, but only after you destroy the guy trying to defend you. He knows you’re looking for that one-timer, so he’s going to try and drop into the lane. Does that make sense?”  
  
Madi reaches for her stick. 

He can hear Clarke laughing. 

“It makes sense,” Bellamy says. “You want to draw the defender down—get ‘em to think you’re going one way and then go the other. Then you’re set up to wreck them with how hard you can shoot through open lanes.”  
  
“How?” Madi asks. 

“Keep ‘em moving. And you have to keep moving, too. Indra told me you’ve got the best wrists she’s ever seen.”

Monty cackles. “Is that insulting for you, Bell?” 

“It is,” Bellamy nods, bits of color dotting Madi’s cheeks. “But if you’re going to take my spot on the power play, then you need good wrists. That’s what makes all the difference. Forehand, backhand,” he drags a puck in front of him, exaggerated movements that feel a bit like falling back into something. It’s an unexpectedly soft landing. “Fake like you’re going to go cross-ice and then—” 

He pulls back, some of the muscles in his back protesting the twist at the same time he moves his wrist. The stick slams into the side of the puck, a far-too-familiar sound as it soars through the open air and directly under the crossbar. 

Someone whistles. 

It might be Clarke. 

Bellamy hopes it’s Clarke. 

“Whoa,” Madi breathes. And just like that, the tension is gone. Every single one of Bellamy’s muscles relax and his smile feels as normal as anything, a deep breath and oxygen that does actually reach his brain, turning on his heels to find a twelve-year-old staring at him like he just did something impressive. 

“Here,” he says, handing her back the stick. “Make sure you keep your eyes up. Forehand, backhand—yeah, like that.” Madi shifts, mirroring his movements almost perfectly, before taking an exaggerated glance towards the far side of the ice. And shoots. Hard. It’s a miracle the puck doesn’t fly through the net. “Shit,” he mutters, grimacing when he realizes what he’s said, and Clarke is definitely the one laughing. 

Madi spins. It gets ice on his sneakers. “Was that good?”  
  
“We might want to work on the element of surprise a little. You don’t have to stare down the rest of the ice, but yeah, that was good. Disgusting, honestly.”  
  
“Is that a compliment?” Clarke asks, and Madi rolls her eyes almost immediately. 

“Obviously!”

“Oh, right, right, obviously. Did you pick this music, or—”  
  
“—They still only own one CD here, it seems,” Bellamy finishes. 

“Nope, incorrect,” Monty argues, “we are full on tech here with an mp3 player that barely holds a charge or more than 80 songs. That’s why it still plays everything you listened to in a garbage attempt to psych yourself up.”  
  
Clarke’s head moves on a swivel, something flipping in the general vicinity of Bellamy’s stomach. Like nerves. And even more blunt honesty than he’d given up in the basement. Music he still listens to before every game, the same playlist he’s had since he was the twelve-year-old on the ice and his mom had a stash of David Bowie records in the hallway closet. 

“It’s good music,” Bellamy reasons. “Madi likes it, right?”  
  
“Eh,” she grimaces. 

“You want to practice some more?”  
  
“With you?”  
  
“Sure. If it’s cool with Clarke?”  
  
“Clarke, can I? Please? It’s—”  
  
“—Yeah, of course,” Clarke nods. “But no more than half an hour, ok?”  
  
“But—”  
  
Clarke shakes her head and, well, that’s that. Bellamy grins. “Let me grab some more pucks.”

* * *

They have to send Monty back to the basement to get more pucks forty-five minutes later. 

Clarke eats all the croissants in the bag. 

And Madi barely misses a shot. 

* * *

“Alright,” Clarke says eventually, long past the half-hour deadline and the mp3 player died at least fifteen minutes earlier. “Madi, c’mon, we’ve got to get out of here.”  
  
“What?” Madi cries. “No, no, no,—”  
  
Clarke makes _that_ face again, Bellamy tugging his lips behind his teeth so he doesn’t do something insane like laugh and get grounded himself. He’d like to kiss her again, so. He’s got priorities. And they’ll kill him in New York if he pulls something over the break. 

Madi huffs — slumped shoulders and the crash of her stick when she drops it unceremoniously. She collides with the bench, grumbling under her breath and it takes more than one try to get her legs over, but then she’s marching down the tunnel and Bellamy is still on the ice. 

With Clarke. 

Monty left as soon as he got back from the basement. 

“So, uh—” Bellamy starts, not sure what to say, but his stomach is doing its best to find a home in the middle of his throat and—  
  
“What are you doing later?”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
“Was that confusing?”  
  
“A little,” he admits. Clarke scrunches her nose. And squeezes one eye shut. 

“It was super nice of you to stay out here so long. I mean, we were really supposed to leave after thirty minutes, but—”  
  
“—I had fun,” Bellamy promises. “It was nice of you to let Madi stay.”  
  
“She’s never going to stop talking about this.”  
  
“Will you?” It’s a loaded and entirely unfair question — after several hours of _far too easy_ and obvious flirting, quick glances and stolen looks and it is a miracle he’s still not on fire. That’d make it difficult to stay on the ice. “Remember when being a dick was just my base setting?” 

Clarke scoffs, the ends of her mouth quirking up and for a passably fleeting second, Bellamy truly believes this could be it. This could be the thing — everything and anything, all the moments he thought he’d already lost and never deserved. 

“It’s crazy how quickly you can twist your wrists,” Clarke says. 

“A compliment?”  
  
“A fact. And, uh—I wasn’t kidding before. About later and if you’re...do you ignore the All-Star game, or…”  
  
“I was thinking about taking up residency at the end of The Dropship counter. Indra’s cabin doesn’t have a TV, so—”  
  
“—We do.”  
  
“What?”

Clarke grits her teeth, another shift of expressions and Bellamy’s walking. He didn’t remember deciding to do that. She’s definitely pressed up on her toes, trying to stay in his eye line, which is also admittedly messing with his head, but then she’s also talking and—

“We have a TV. And we should probably talk.”  
  
“Didn’t we do that? Depressing and self-deprecating backstories?”  
  
“You’re an idiot.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
He might think about her smile more than the sound she made in the basement. It might be better. 

“What I’m saying is I don’t know if you were going to watch the game, but Madi will want to and...you could watch it with us.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“We’re going in circles.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Bellamy chuckles, crowding into Clarke’s space like that’s something that’s just allowed now. She doesn’t tell him to stop. “Yeah,” he repeats. “Where am I going, then?”  
  
She tells him. 

And he thinks — hopes, at least — that he doesn’t let the disappointment he feels between every single one of his vertebrae show on his face, but then she and Madi are leaving and Bellamy’s voice doesn’t sound entirely human, standing on the ice until he can’t feel his feet. 

* * *

**Octavia Blake, 6:21 p.m.:** A GIRL????? THERE’S A GIRL????

**Octavia Blake, 6:22 p.m.:** Oh, we’re doing that ignoring thing again, huh? Is that because you got caught making out WITH A GIRL like you’re fifteen???

**Octavia Blake, 6:24 p.m.:** Monty said she’s a doctor. At least she’s more impressive than you. 

It takes him exactly twelve minutes to walk across town. It should have been faster. It always felt faster when he was a kid. 

But then the weight of the world hadn’t taken up residence between Bellamy’s shoulders and he’s definitely ignoring Octavia. 

Because the house looks the same. 

And not. 

The shutters are a different color, dim lights shining through closed curtains, but there’s still a paint stain on the porch from when Octavia knocked a can over trying to finish an art project when she was in eighth grade and the lilac bush on the far side of the house is bigger than Bellamy remembered. 

He tugs his phone out of his back pocket. 

**Bellamy Blake, 6:49 p.m.:** She lives here. 

**Octavia Blake, 6:50 p.m.:** Are you having a mental breakdown?

**Bellamy Blake, 6:51 p.m.:** Quite possibly. 

**Octavia Blake, 6:25 p.m.:** What are you talking about?

**Bellamy Blake, 6:53 p.m.:** Clarke. The girl. The...the doctor. 

**Octavia Blake, 6:54 p.m.:** The kissing girl?

**Bellamy Blake, 6:54 p.m.:** God don’t call her that. 

**Octavia Blake, 6:55 p.m.:** SPEAK ENGLISH. 

TYPE ENGLISH. 

**Bellamy Blake, 6:56 p.m.:** Clarke. She and her kid live in our house. 

**Octavia Blake, 6:58 p.m.:** Oh, shit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank you guys enough for clicking and reading and saying nice things. It's the best. I genuinely hadn't originally planned on Clarke living in Bellamy's house and then my brain was like...oh, that'd be good. Hopefully it's good. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) where I am still losing my mind over Mika Zibanejad's five-goal game last night.


	3. Chapter 3

“Are you frozen out there? Or just lurking in a brand-new place?”  
  
Bellamy actually jumps, which is not the most ridiculous thing he’s done recently — that was probably the basement, honestly, and the kissing, even more honestly, but he can’t seem to stop thinking about the kissing and he’s ninety-two percent positive the house is growing. 

In intimidation. 

Clarke tilts her head when he doesn’t respond, leaning against the door frame. She crosses her feet at the ankles. She’s not wearing any socks. 

And Bellamy’s phone buzzes again. 

He ignores it, stuffing it in his back pocket again and bounding up impossibly familiar steps quickly enough that Clarke can’t quite mask her surprise. “Not frozen,” he promises. “Just, uh—”  
  
“—Showing off on my very icy front steps?”

“I honestly didn’t even notice.”  
  
“God, that’s ridiculous.”   
  
“Do you not de-ice your steps?”   
  
“We take very careful and cautious steps. And usually just kind of...throw the equipment down towards the lawn.”

“You have salt, or…”  
  
She crosses her arms. It leaves her looking a little twisted, and that only kind of feels like a sign, especially when her teeth find her lower lip. Bellamy’s fingers find the back of his hair. “Is this you offering to pour salt on my front steps?” Clarke asks softly. 

“Or at least some dirt.”

“Does that work?”  
  
“Eh,” Bellamy shrugs. “Gets you some traction. And you probably shouldn’t throw the equipment. You’ll break Madi’s sticks that way.”   
  
“Don’t mention that. I can’t tell you how much I’ve spent on sticks in the last four months.”   
  
He chuckles, not quite nervous, but maybe a bit hopeful and he’s only a little worried Octavia is going to fly to Arkadia. Just to make sure he’s not losing his mind. If he is, it’s a far more pleasant feeling than Bellamy anticipated. 

More points, or whatever. 

“So,” Clarke says, dragging out the letters slightly, “were you planning on coming inside, or…”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I was, just—my sister was texting me.”   
  
“Concerned about going to a stranger’s house?”   
  
“Are you a stranger at this point?”   
  
Her eyes narrow — and he hadn’t really meant for the question to have quite that much weight or depth, but they really had been very good at making out, and Bellamy’s not sure his pulse has actually recovered yet, so he’s willing to blame unplanned allusions on both of those things and partially on this house and—

“Hey, Bellamy,” Madi says, sliding across the hardwood floor behind Clarke. She’s wearing socks, a stick in her hand, moving a puck with her and the tape job on her blade is enough to scandalize every professional athlete notion Bellamy has. 

“What’s happening to your face right now?” Clarke murmurs. 

He doesn’t really register the question, is only passably aware of what is, in fact, happening to his face. Madi’s eyes have gone very wide. 

“Who taught you how to tape your stick?”

It’s clearly not the question Clarke expects, her hand flying to her mouth and sound flying out of her anyway, a laugh and a scoff and Madi only looks a little annoyed. “No one,” she hisses. 

“How’d that happen?”

Madi shrugs. There’s not much energy to the movement, but Bellamy can see the hints of resigned frustration to it — even more familiarity that feels as if it’s smacking him across the face and that might honestly just be how goddamn cold it is outside. He was absolutely offering to pour rock salt on Clarke’s front steps. 

In a nice way. 

A good guy way. 

A way where he doesn’t have to keep reminding himself he’d like to be a good guy. 

Maybe Octavia should come make sure he hasn’t gone insane. 

“I didn’t know a lot of people when I started playing,” Madi mumbles. She suddenly seems very preoccupied with her socks. “And the first team I was on wasn’t really—”  
  
“—A team?” Bellamy suggests. 

Another shrug. 

“And Monty’s never tried to fix that?” he presses. Clarke stays suspiciously silent, fingers fluttering against her cheek now, while her eyes bounce between Bellamy and Madi. “Seriously, we’ve got to talk to him about being a better coach.”  
  
“We?” Madi repeats. 

Bellamy is going to rip his hair out. Not on purpose. Fueled solely on oversteps and metaphorical feet in his mouth, licking his lips quickly, like that will send him back in time five seconds. Clarke’s eyes linger on him for another five seconds. 

“Me,” he amends. “That is really not a very good tape job.”

“It’s not easy to do!”

“Yeah, I know,” Bellamy agrees, careful to keep his voice light and he’s really got to go inside at some point. If only to make sure Clarke’s heating bill isn’t affected. “I’m really good at it, though.”  
  
“Of course you are,” Clarke grumbles. 

“Is that doubt I hear, Princess?”  
  
“That’s not really going to end, huh?”   
  
Madi beams. 

Bellamy hopes that’s not going to be a problem.

He ignores it. 

“Something about a shoe and it fitting.”  
  
“Now we’re making misplaced Cinderella references.”   
  
“Are we?”   
  
“If Clarke was a princess, she’d totally be Cinderella,” Madi adds, leaning forward to tug on the bottom of Bellamy’s jacket, like that’s the only thing keeping him from going into his house. 

It’s not his house. 

His mind may still be in the basement, honestly. 

“You think?” Bellamy asks. 

Madi nods enthusiastically, and he swears Clarke’s arms get tighter where they’re crossed. Her feet have to be freezing. “Oh, yeah, yeah,” Madi says, racing over the words. “Rich and important and then everything went bad, but there was no evil stepmother, just—"  
  
“—Ok,” Clarke interrupts. Madi stands up straighter. “Was Bellamy actually planning to come inside or were we just going to insult Monty’s coaching abilities on the porch all night?”   
  
“That kind of sounds like fun, though, doesn’t it?” Bellamy asks, one side of his mouth tugging up into a smirk.

Some of the very obvious tension in Clarke’s shoulders disappears. 

“Not if it stays this cold.”  
  
“Well, you’re not wearing any socks.”   
  
“Cinderella wouldn’t have worn socks with her glass slipper.”   
  
Strictly speaking, it is impossible for him to like her as much as he already does. Or it should be. Or will be. Some tense Bellamy isn’t aware of and certainly doesn’t care about because he never went to college and taping his stick in thirty-two seconds flat is one of his more impressive talents.

And yet. 

He finds himself smiling again, easy and simple, more words he’d forgotten the meaning of. As if it just is. As if just could be. As if he’s taking—

That’s insane. 

He’s insane. 

His phone is going to explode.  
  
He almost wishes it would. 

“Bellamy,” Clarke says, and he’s not really keeping a list of things he likes about her, but the sound of his own name spoken between barely parted lips is definitely somewhere in the top five. Maybe top three. Three’s more relevant to hockey, anyway. 

He nods. An agreement and maybe acceptance, or a bit of misplaced hope, but his mom used to say false hope was an oxymoron. “You have tape here, Madi?”  
  
“Obviously.”   
  
“Obviously.”   
  
Her smile gets bigger, and Bellamy doesn’t really consider his hand on Madi’s shoulder, but Clarke’s eyes follow the movement as he takes a step forward, walking towards the living room. 

* * *

It takes Madi a few minutes to pull the tape out of her bag — tossed haphazardly in the corner of the living room, and more than a few pucks fall on the ground in the process. Bellamy’s whole soul lurches at that, memories that slam into him from every angle, until he’s almost surprised to find himself still standing and—

“Here,” Madi says, tossing him the roll. He does not catch it.

“Oh,” Clarke laughs. “Is that shades of an air hockey loss, I see?”  
  
Bellamy scowls, only one of his knees cracking when he crouches down, and the pre-game is already on. He can hear the announcers — analysis of the first half of the season and expectations he’s almost forgotten about. The Rangers are seven points out of the second Wild Card, rumors swirling about selling at the trade deadline and prepping for a rebuild. 

One that wouldn’t need a third-line goon. 

“I think you’re obsessed with your win,” Bellamy accuses, pointing at the open space on the carpet in front of him. “Gimme your stick, Madi.”

She nearly stabs him in the chest — more enthusiasm that leaves him a little breathless in an overwhelmed sort of way. Where overwhelmed is good. And flirt-prone. With this girl’s mom. In their house. 

His house. 

Not his house. 

This is a disaster. Again. Still, maybe. 

“Oh shit,” Bellamy mumbles when he realizes he can’t get the tape off without a knife and he’s got to stop swearing around the kid. She laughs. So does Clarke. 

“Here,” she says, leaning around him and tugging the stick away. There’s a clank of keys and a hiss of breath and his neck doesn’t totally appreciate the way Bellamy twists, but he's falling fast and hard and the whole thing is far more attractive than it has any right to be. 

Clarke cuts the tape off. 

And unspools it, a flick of her right wrist and a flash of a smile that only widens when the ball of goddamn tape bounces off Bellamy’s chin. 

“Need quicker reflexes,” she says. 

“We can only talk about my wrists so much before it gets weird, don’t you think?”  
  
“Oh shut up, retape the stick, master of the stick tape.”   
  
“It’s really not a good nickname.”   
  
“Not all of us are as knowingly creative as you.”

Bellamy laughs, turning back towards an expectant and still-smiling Madi. “You want to take it slow when you start,” he explains, “make sure that your lines match up. Otherwise you’re going to have open space, then your blade gets all wet and—”

“—You lose the puck,” Madi finishes.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re something of a genius?”  
  
“Clarke.”   
  
“Good. She’s right.”   
  
His neck is going to stage a mutiny from the rest of his body if Bellamy keeps moving like he is, but he’s certain he can feel the force of Clarke’s stare boring into the back of his head, more unspoken questions and her side of the potentially depressing backstory. Plus, he’s something of a glutton for punishment and she keeps chewing on her lower lip. 

Bellamy smiles at her. 

She doesn’t blink. 

“Anyway,” he continues, only a little frustrated that his voice doesn’t sound entirely like himself, “you have to match up the ends. Straight lines, take your time. But you don’t have to cover the whole thing. That’s—that’s a waste of tape.”  
  
At some point, Bellamy is hopeful he’ll stop saying things he didn’t plan on. He’s going to blame Clarke’s lower lip. 

Like, entirely. 

Because he’s positive she can also hear what he didn’t actually say. Wasting tape is wasting money and wasting money is wrong and selfish and—Madi starts swatting at his right leg. He almost falls over. 

“Look at that move,” Madi cries. She jumps up, stick and tape forgotten in favor of crowding towards the TV. As if she’ll be able to see better or absorb the movement if she’s, somehow, closer to St. Louis and the All-Star jerseys are ugly. 

Or so Bellamy will continue to tell himself. 

“Shoot it, shoot it, shoot it,” Madi chants. The guy doesn’t shoot it. He’s from Pittsburgh so Bellamy hates him by default. “He should have shot it.”  
  
“Waste of a move,” Bellamy adds.   
  
“Seriously! That was—you definitely could have gotten by that guy. You would have scored.”

“Eh, I don’t know, Madi, speed’s not really—”  
  
“—All that space, Bellamy! Three on three!”   
  
He ducks his head, legs finally giving up to the prolonged idea of crouching and Clarke’s couch noticeably creaks when she shifts. “I don’t get a lot of OT time anymore,” Bellamy says. “Can I, uh—why’d you start watching hockey?”   
  
Madi turns around slowly, any of the energy that had been practically vibrating around her during the play flickering just a bit. 

The couch creaks again. 

And for a moment Bellamy feels like an asshole, obviously overstepping even when he’s sitting down. But he’s also admittedly curious and _this kid_ , with her cheering and her focus and the power on that one-timer, it’s...he’s curious. There’s way too much open space on the ice during three-on-three. 

Makes it easier to score. 

And easier to turn the puck over. 

Madi’s eyes flicker towards Clarke, and Bellamy doesn’t trust himself to move, but he’d bet all of Jasper’s money that Clarke nods. He waits. 

“One time it snowed,” Madi starts, “and there was ice outside and so—it was New York, but the kids went outside and they didn’t have a puck. It wasn’t even really sticks. We used brooms and I had a plastic shovel and there weren’t many rules. Just trying to score on each other. One of the kids, though he liked you.”  
  
Bellamy blinks. “Me?”   
  
“Yeah, yeah. He had an old shirt. Not a jersey because—”   
  
“—Those are expensive.”   
  
Madi hums, her nod far too tight to be understandable for a kid. He’s still missing something. “He kept hitting people when we played. And I didn’t get it at first, but then I looked you up and…” She shrugs. Bellamy swallows. It doesn’t help the feeling in his throat, like it’s closing.

“It was kind of fun. People didn’t think I could do it.”  
  
“Do what?”   
  
“Fight back.”   
  
It is a miracle Bellamy’s head does not fly off his neck. He moves so quickly, there’s little doubt he’s dislocated something as well, Clarke meeting his gaze with barely more than a quick shift of her eyebrows, her chin resting on her knees where her legs are pulled towards her chest.

“Madi, I…” Bellamy breathes, and Clarke’s eyebrows disappear behind her hairline. 

“I don’t do that much anymore,” Madi says. 

“No?”  
  
“Nah. I found other videos.”

Maybe this is fake. Maybe one time he got concussed and he didn’t realize it, a hit that was too hard and now Bellamy’s just created some return home where a kid thinks he’s good and Clarke Griffin exists and he’s not altogether sure what he’ll do if he wakes up to find anything different.

“You set a rookie record for faceoff wins,” Madi continues. “And that goal in the second round before the Eastern Conference Finals—” Her hands fly through the air, wide eyes and a return to excitement that makes it a bit easier to breathe. “That was nuts.”  
  
“That’s high praise,” Clarke adds. 

Whatever sound Bellamy makes in response isn’t quite a laugh, and he’s already lost track of the number of times he’s blinked in the last forty-two seconds. They’re cleaning the ice on TV. 

Honestly, the metaphors. 

“You should score more,” Madi says, all determined like it’s not just an opinion, but a statement of fact and, maybe, a command. 

Bellamy rolls his shoulders back. “You think?”  
  
“Obviously.”   
  
“Oh, obviously. You know I’m playing third line now.”   
  
“That’s where I play.”   
  
His foot is starting to feel almost natural in his mouth. “Shit,” Bellamy exhales, another knowing smile from Madi and he’s still not getting the whole story. He should ask Clarke. He doesn’t want to push. Good guys don’t push. 

They’d get two minutes for that. 

“Well,” Bellamy says, “you’re way better than me, so…”  
  
“You think?”   
  
“I know. How’s your trash talk, though?”   
  
“Almost questionably good,” Clarke answers, and Bellamy doesn’t think she means to let her fingers graze his shoulder when she moves, but they do and she does and she’s made food. Maybe disaster, in this case, is perfect. 

He’s sitting on his phone. 

“I can chirp,” Madi promises. She grabs the tape when she drops next to Bellamy, pulling her stick closer and he’s not at all surprised to find that she’s right. 

They come up with some fairly scathing opinions on the entire city of St. Louis. 

Clarke draws the line at insulting fried ravioli. 

She made fried ravioli.

But that only leaves them shifting to critiquing the Central Division as a whole, that guy from the Kings, most of Western Canada, and how stupid it is that the Penguins have two guys at the All-Star game. 

Madi falls asleep before the end of the championship game, legs curled up just like Clarke’s were, and a pillow propped up against Bellamy’s side. 

* * *

He can’t move. 

He doesn’t want to move. 

He can’t really feel his left thigh anymore. 

And the game is long over, Bellamy grabbing one of the pucks Madi forgot to put back. He keeps spinning it on its side, testing reflexes like he’s twelve again, and Clarke’s in the kitchen. They ate all the fried ravioli. 

“That doesn’t usually happen,” Clarke murmurs, back with two bottles and half a smile. Like she’s a little nervous. Maybe because they didn’t talk. 

At least not about what they were supposed to. 

“You might have to be more specific.”  
  
“Madi. That’s—she doesn’t usually talk that much.”   
  
“Seriously?”   
  
Clarke nods, handing Bellamy one of the bottles. Her eyes dart towards the puck more than once, the tip of her tongue obvious when it pushes into the side of her mouth. He’s got to stop staring at her mouth. 

And he might not have moved because of that selfish streak that runs a mile wide. 

He can’t remember the last time something like this happened. 

Long before he left this house. 

He should tell Clarke it’s his house. 

And then immediately stop using possessive pronouns. 

“Seriously,” Clarke repeats. “I don’t really either.”  
  
“You didn’t trash talk much, Princess.”   
  
“If we could just transfer the confidence you have in your own humor to the ice, you could probably win a Stanley Cup on your own.”   
  
The puck falls over. 

And Clarke grits her teeth. “Did that sound as fucked up out loud as I think it did?”  
  
“A little,” Bellamy admits. He starts tossing the puck instead, careful not to move Madi too much, and Clarke’s expression softens slightly, all blue and calm and he knows what’s coming. 

That’s why he didn’t want to talk about it. 

“I’m sorry," she says. "I wasn’t trying to be a jerk.”  
  
“I don’t think you’re a jerk.”   
  
“I did make pretty fantastic fried ravioli.”   
  
“Way better than the food I’m normally eating.”   
  
“Do you not have like—a personal chef or something?”   
  
“How much money do you think I’m making?” Bellamy laughs. “And you’re the one who grew up Uptown, not me.”

“Bellamy Blake, the return of the bitterness.” He hums, Madi mumbling under her breath and the amount of space his heart has started taking up in his chest cannot be correct. “She, uh—” Clarke adds, “Well, she’s not—”  
  
“—Yes she is.”   
  
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”   
  
“You’ve got this very expressive face.”   
  
“Are you staring at my face?”   
  
“As much as I can without being weird.”   
  
Her smile is dangerous. It’s...far too wide and far too honest and Clarke takes a swig of beer Bellamy hasn’t even glanced at before she looks back up at him, like she’s trying to find the lie and only a little surprised that there isn’t one. “Only a little weird,” she mutters. “You're not the only one with background. And that’s part of my fucked-up story, I guess."

"You're face?"

"No, I, uh..." Bellamy raises his eyebrows, a _go on_ without saying the words, and they're also very good at this. Talking. Not talking. Possibly sharing. "I—well, I played by all the rules when I was a kid. Following directly in my mom’s footsteps and it was good.”   
  
“Until?”   
  
“Until it wasn’t. I wanted to do more”   
  
“Than being a doctor? Christ, Clarke.”   
  
“You’re going to do dangerous things to my ego.”   
  
“Good.”

She scoffs, dots of color on her cheeks. “I started working at a clinic in Queens. When I could. Off shift, on the weekends, whatever helped. And Madi came in. She’d broken her wrist playing hockey. Got shoved over, braced her fall, all the usual kid stuff. Except she wasn’t a usual kid.”  
  
“Group home?”   
  
“You don’t give yourself enough credit for being smart.”   
  
“Nah, that’s not—they wanted to send O to one. When I wasn’t here and she was still a kid. I couldn’t do anything, but Indra did and—”   
  
“—That’s not your fault, you know that, right?”   
  
He makes a dismissive noise, fingers fluttering because he’d like to shoot at something or, at least, move and he still bounces the puck on his blade when he’s nervous before a game. Bellamy is suddenly very nervous. 

“We set her wrist,” Clarke continues, “told her to stay off the ice for a couple weeks, which was like telling her the world was ending.”  
  
“Yeah, I get that.”   
  
“I know you do.”   
  
She says it with enough conviction that any idea this isn’t absolutely, positively real flies out several windows. His mom used to open the windows when she cleaned, promises that _fresh air_ was good and something else about the lilacs. 

“My mom thought it was insane,” Clarke whispers. “Wanting to adopt a kid when I was barely out of med school. But I couldn’t shake the feeling. That it was right. And I knew it was a long shot, single parent, but—well, I was born uptown and I could—”  
  
“—Work the system?”   
  
“Also sounds fucked up out loud.”   
  
Bellamy shakes his head, not able to brush the hair away from his eyes. He snatches the puck out of mid-air. “You did a good thing, Clarke. When’s the last time she broke a bone?”   
  
“She hasn’t.”   
  
“I rest my case.”   
  
“That’s not how it works at all.”   
  
“You’re not a lawyer.”   
  
“I knew one.”   
  
He almost drops the puck. Bellamy waits for the rest of the explanation, maybe something else about Cinderella, but it doesn’t come, only downcast eyes and shoulders that are far too straight to be comfortable and—“Can you do that puck bouncing thing?” Clarke asks.   
  
“Expand on that for me.”   
  
“Oh, you know what I mean. The—Monty does it, when he’s trying to prove to the kids that he’s good at hockey and—oh, _fuck,_ you can’t tell him I told you that.” Bellamy widens his eyes, lips tugged back behind his teeth so he doesn’t start smiling like a lunatic. Clarke groans. “People do it. That’s—”   
  
“—You want to learn how to do it?”   
  
She nods. 

* * *

Madi wakes up when he moves. 

And grumbles on her way upstairs, trudging up the steps without enough near-teenage angst that for a moment it’s like they’ve time jumped and Octavia is there, not just texting Bellamy incessantly. 

Bellamy grabs her stick. 

So he can start doing the puck-bouncing-thing. 

And the puck doesn’t hit the ground once, even when Clarke returns, still sockless and still making his heart do impossible things. 

“Is it just hand-eye coordination, then?” she asks, crowding into his space. Bellamy clicks his tongue, a quick jerk of his hand and his eyes don’t leave the puck, falling into a rhythm that’s as easy as—

Breathing. 

He’s breathing like a normal person. 

He’s impossibly fucked. 

“Not an answer.”

He bends his knees, possibly misplaced efforts to _impress_ , but it’s also almost easier that way and Clarke gasps when the puck finally falls. “Here,” Bellamy says, nodding when Clarke gapes at the stick. “You'll need that.”   
  
“You owe me two bottles of beer.”   
  
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to get me buzzed.”   
  
“I like my TV too much to let you drink and—what’s the technical term for this, then?”   
  
“I really don’t think there is one.”   
  
“Lame,” Clarke grouses, and nothing about her next few movements is natural. She lunges, trying to get the puck back on the stick-blade, but her balance is already all off and she’d definitely fall over on the ice. “Oh damn, that’s—” She flounders, the puck falling and tilting, and Bellamy’s laugh doesn’t soar, so much as it just drops out of him. 

Easy. Again. 

“Don’t be a dick,” Clarke grumbles. Her shoulders are curved, like she’s trying to come in from the top, and she doesn’t flinch when his hand lands on skin. 

“Ok, ok, just—you’ve got to at least stand up.”  
  
“What do you know?”   
  
“Definitely a few more things than you do when it comes to this.”

She huffs, but does as instructed, which isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to Bellamy, but is strangely close, the movement leaving Clarke flush against his chest. He leans around her, fingers curling over hers. 

They’re warm. 

He’s starting to think she’s just always warm. 

In an equivalent to the force of the sun kind of way. 

“The goal is to get under it,” Bellamy explains softly, “just bend your elbow and—” Clarke lets out a quiet exclamation, joy obvious even when he can’t see her face. “Yeah, yeah, like that. Now you want to keep your wrist straight, but loose, tightening up will—”  
  
“—Has anyone ever told you that this all sounds absurd?”   
  
“This is a game where people strap knives to their feet so they can glide around on ice with actual sticks in their hands.”   
  
“Ah, yeah, that’s true.”   
  
“And you’re distracting me.”   
  
“Am I?”   
  
She rolls her shoulders, a move that he’s sure will only serve to make him go slightly more insane than he already is. “Stop that,” Bellamy chides, Clarke’s laugh in his ear. “Ok, you’ve got the puck on your stick. Don’t look away from it when you move.”   
  
His hand drops, sliding down her arm to find her elbow bent and her sleeve in the way. He kind of feels like he’s dying. And possibly flying. Several of his internal organs appear determined to fall onto the floor. 

That would be gross. 

“How exactly am I moving, then?”  
  
“Exactly what you’d think. Quick kind of—like you’re bouncing it.”   
  
“You are not the best teacher, you know that?” He sighs, nudging at the back of Clarke’s arm until she’s moving and the puck falls off almost immediately. “Wow, that was anticlimactic.”   
  
“Lemme do it,” Bellamy says.

“Oh, that confidence, though.”  
  
“I can do it.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“Prepare to be wowed.”

Clarke’s eyebrows defy gravity again, a curl of her lips, but she hands him the stick and he—

Can’t get the puck back on the blade. 

“It’s because of the carpet.”  
  
Clarke spins, hands flying back to his chest and it is several miracles that he doesn’t touch her again. He’d like to. He’d like...Clarke sticks her lower lip out when she nods, throat shifting when she does her best not to laugh in his face. It only kind of works. “I’m still waiting to be wowed.”   
  
“At last timing, I can perfectly tape a stick in just over 30 seconds.”   
  
“Why did you ever time that?”   
  
“We’re a very competitive group here. I used to destroy Murphy.”   
  
“You think you still can?”   
  
He shrugs, foreign modesty, but he finds himself wanting to be honest and maybe a little earnest and, really, most of him just wants to kiss Clarke Griffin until he can keep breathing. 

Her eyes keep sweeping across his face. 

And he’s got every reason to move. To duck his head and press his mouth to hers, _again_ , fall back into something and settle into everything, but that’s far too big and far too quick and Clarke is biting her lip again. And there’s a sleeping kid upstairs, and everything’s been almost kind of normal and even more _real_ , so he doesn’t move, he fakes a smile and regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Bellamy mumbles. 

“For?”  
  
“Before. The basement and telling you all that shit, doing that was, uh—”   
  
“—Bad?”   
  
“I hope not. But, it might have been—”   
  
“—Bad.”   
  
“Probably depends on how you look at it,” Bellamy admits. “You were the one who wanted to talk about it.”

“That’s true. God, that was an idiotic idea.”

“It’s not the best response I’ve ever gotten.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant,” Clarke grumbles. “I guess I wasn’t really...expecting it. Not the talking. Just, the first time, I mean, that—well, I asked and pushed and—” 

“You didn’t push,” Bellamy promises. “On either front.”  
  
“You caught me by surprise a little bit.”

He lets out a soft laugh, the tip of his tongue finding the corner of his mouth. “I get it. Have you seen you, though?” Clarke’s lips all but disappear behind her teeth, a sharp inhale of even more obvious surprise and it’s as good as it is the exact opposite. “I ran here,” Bellamy says. “Back to Arkadia. To...I don’t know why.”  
  
“Lying is not cute.”   
  
“That’s another mark in the calling me cute column.” Clarke clicks her teeth in reproach, a half-hearted eye roll that makes Bellamy’s stomach roll in tandem. “I have to go back eventually, Clarke and you’re…”   
  
“Here,” she says. 

“That sounds way more fucked up than it should.”  
  
“Something to be said for blunt honesty, huh?”   
  
“Or blunt-force trauma.”   
  
“That’s not how it works at all,” Clarke objects, but her fingers flutter at her side again. Bellamy wishes she would move. He wishes the All-Star break were longer. He wishes having a crush didn’t feel quite so juvenile. 

He’s totally got a crush on her. 

“I just—it’s a small town, right?” Clarke asks. “And I’ve only been here for a couple months too, and I’ve got Madi to worry about, but it was nice to have…” Bellamy eyes bug when she cuts herself off. He knows what’s coming. Again. Perpetually, it seems. “A friend, maybe.”  
  
“That’s still an option.”   
  
“Is it?”   
  
He nods, brusque and almost too aggressive. It’s because he’s trying to convince himself of the same thing. “Yeah, of course. I—well, if I apologized I should thank you too. For the listening and for the fried ravioli.”   
  
“Those are Madi’s favorite, that’s why.”   
  
“Kid’s got good taste.”   
  
“She does,” Clarke laughs, a little strangled. “And she likes you too. Who says you can’t meet your heroes, huh?”

The concussion is almost sounding preferable now. God, he’s such an asshole. Bellamy’s smile sticks on his face, even when he takes a step back, and he's still holding the fucking stick. It might be the only thing keeping him upright. 

“Thanks for letting me—” Bellamy has to lick his lips. There’s still a stack of records in the corner of the living room. “I had fun.”  
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah. And, you’re right. It’s a small town. I’ll, um—I’m sure I’ll see you and I promised Monty I’d show up at practice, so…”

They stand there for a moment, not quite silent, because this house is old and everything always seemed to rattle, but then Bellamy takes a sharp breath and nods once and—“See you later, Clarke.”  
  
“Bye, Bellamy.”

* * *

**Octavia Blake, 11:21 a.m.:** Please do not forget my croissants

**Bellamy Blake, 11:22 a.m.:** Please?   
  
**Octavia Blake, 11:22 a.m.:** I’m hoping the stunned surprised of that one word is not meant to be as insulting as it sounds

**Bellamy Blake, 11:23 a.m.:** I’ve been here for four days. How quickly do you think I can ship croissants?

**Octavia Blake, 11:24 a.m.:** You didn’t get them yet, did you?

**Bellamy Blake, 11:25 a.m.** That’s not the point

**Octavia Blake, 11:26 a.m.** No?

**Bellamy Blake, 11:26 a.m.** No.

**Octavia Blake, 11:27 a.m.:** Oh did you tell her she’s living in our house and it got super weird?

**Bellamy Blake, 11:28 a.m.:** It’s not our house

**Octavia Blake, 11:29 a.m.:** _screenshot attached_

**Bellamy Blake, 11:31 a.m.:** Do not use my own words against me like that.

**Octavia Blake, 11:32 a.m.:** Are you a bad kisser or something?

**Bellamy Blake, 11:32 a.m.:** You’re a beacon of support, you know that?

**Octavia Blake, 11:33 a.m.** Monty said it looked...enthusiastic

**Octavia Blake, 11:38 a.m.:** Don’t do that

The brooding silence. The doctor won’t think it’s cute.

**Bellamy Blake, 11:40 a.m.:** Clarke.   
  
**Octavia Blake, 11:40 a.m.:** Huh?

**Bellamy Blake, 11:41 a.m.:** Her name is Clarke.

**Octavia Blake, 11:41 a.m.:** Oh. So, this is happening, then.

**Bellamy Blake, 11:42 a.m.:** Huh?   
**  
Octavia Blake, 11:43 a.m.:** Hardy har har. You’re not that funny. 

Clarke should know you’re not funny. 

And you’re pining. 

Or moping. 

I don’t know what is more depressing.

**Bellamy Blake, 11:44 a.m.:** I’m not doing either. 

**Octavia Blake, 11:45 a.m.:** Then where are my croissants?

Because I think I could get pretty good odds that the reason they’re still at Grounders is because you don’t want to go to Grounders because you don’t want to run into her. 

**Bellamy Blake, 11:46 a.m.** You’re going to have to eat them quick, you know. They’ll go stale otherwise. 

**Octavia Blake, 11:47 a.m.:** Pining piner who pines. 

**Bellamy Blake, 11:47 a.m.:** I have to leave soon. 

**Octavia Blake, 11:48 a.m.** They have phones. Seriously were you that bad at kissing???

**Bellamy Blake, 11:49 a.m.** Goodbye Octavia. 

**Octavia Blake, 11:49 a.m.** No, no, no, c’mon. 

Just…

You get to be happy, you know. Stop torturing yourself. 

And get me croissants. Seriously. Niylah will help me eat them. 

**Niylah Kofon, 12:03 p.m. :** No I won’t. Please send them anyway. She won’t stop talking about them. 

* * *

“You look like shit, you know that?”  
  
Bellamy doesn’t look up from the notepad in his hand, a pen stuck behind his ear and he’s already lost track of what he’s trying to count. Several times. More than he should. He never responded to Octavia. 

So, he’s really gunning for the title of biggest asshole in Arkadia. 

Possibly the entire eastern seaboard. 

He’s very seriously considering breaking into the rink again. 

And Murphy’s already crossed his arms. 

“God, don’t do that,” Bellamy complains, letting his head loll onto his shoulder. Murphy blinks. “That either, shit.”  
  
“Do you want to make a list of the things that I’m allowed to do?” Murphy drawls. “In my bar. That I own. Where you're sitting. At two o’clock. On a Monday? In the afternoon.”   
  
“Yeah, thank you, you’ve made your very heavy-handed point.”   
  
“Have I though? I’ve got more.”   
  
“I’m going to punch you in the face.”   
  
Murphy shakes his head, lips curled into something that sits squarely between mature and mocking. “It’s honestly insulting what a crap liar you are.”   
  
“Did you just call me a crap liar?”   
  
“I’ve got a whole list of problems with you, Blake.”   
  
“Jesus fuck. I am helping you!” Bellamy waves the hand not still clutching a goddamn notebook through the air, no one else in the bar and he hadn’t planned on helping, but he was actively ignoring his sister and most of his own thoughts and he wasn’t really sure where else to go. Except The Dropship. At two o’clock on a Monday afternoon. 

Murphy was doing inventory. 

“How much have you written down?” Murphy challenges. “Or are you just writing Clarke’s name over and over again and doodling little hearts around it?"  
  
“You’re a horrible person, you know that?”   
  
Murphy hums. “And you seriously look like shit. What’s going on?”   
  
“It’s hysterical that you want to act like you don’t know.”   
  
“Eh, welcome home or something. I can tell you in order of information—”   
  
“—Gossip.”   
  
“Little of column A, little of column B. Seriously, though. Your choice. Order I got the updates in or, like...I don’t know. Alphabetical order? The how much you care about each person order? Oh, oh, what about the general location of their house order?”   
  
“This is insane.”   
  
“I hate to repeat myself, but welcome home. Idiot.”   
  
Bellamy makes a face, half a scoff and the far-too-loud sound of the notebook dropping onto the bar. He might steal some of Murphy’s inventory. “You have opinions you want to share?”   
  
“No, I have opinions I’m going to tell you and I know you want to say things too.”   
  
“You a mind-reader now?”   
  
“Please,” Murphy laughs, flipping a towel over his shoulder. It might be the most adult thing Bellamy has ever seen Murphy do. “And, seriously, stop doing that thing with your face. You’re not nearly as intimidating as you think you are.”

Bellamy’s jaw drops — a vaguely scathing retort sitting on the tip of his tongue, but the words feel as if they’re burning his tongue as well and he’s so...tired. Of everything. The reputation. The hits. Every single bruise that still hasn’t quite healed yet. Of that thing he keeps doing with his face. It gives him a headache. 

Murphy nods again, a noise in the back of his throat that sounds a bit like gloating. Bellamy throws the notebook at him. 

“Less impressive than your crosscheck,” Murphy grins. 

“Why’d you buy this place?”  
  
“That’s your first question?”   
  
“I’m not usually the one asking the questions.”   
  
“Ah, yeah, that’s true. And, uh—they were going to get rid of it. Total cliché. Shut the place down, probably blow it up or something.” The grin widens when Bellamy groans, but Murphy’s hit his stride now and the desire to rob him has lessened just a bit. “Anyway,” Murphy says, “I didn’t think I wanted it. Way too much responsibility, you know?”   
  
“To own a bar.”   
  
“You play a sport. Professionally. Let’s not throw stones, huh?”   
  
“Also fair. Ok, so you stave off the explosion and—what? When’d you decide you actually wanted to do this?”

“There wasn’t a switch, Bell. It was just...I wanted something that was mine. That I could hold onto and—ok, yeah, that’s a bar and the same bar we tried to sneak into when we were kids, but it’s good. It’s—still here. And it’s something we’ve all got now. Only bar in town, so high demand, but the rest of the idiots show up pretty regularly and Jasper owes me more money than he’ll ever be able to pay. It’s good.”  
  
He nods. That’s all Bellamy can do, really. 

More words get caught in his throat and weigh down his tongue, make it difficult to get oxygen to his lungs and the jealousy that creeps up his spine catches him by surprise. 

That seems to be a trend for the last four days. 

“I didn’t think I could come back,” Bellamy rasps. “After everything that happened here. My mom and O having to move out of the house and—”  
  
“—That was not your fault.”   
  
“I should have been here.”   
  
Murphy shrugs. “You were a kid. It wasn’t your job to save everyone.”   
  
“No, no, that was—” Bellamy runs a hand over his face, can feel the tug on his cheeks and the way his eyes flutter, a self-preservation instinct he’s had for as long as he can remember. Murphy doesn’t say anything. He didn’t expect him to. “My responsibility,” Bellamy whispers. “To—this was mine, Murphy.”   
  
“Did you find out she lives in your house?”   
  
“Did O text you?”   
  
Murphy shakes his head. “Nah, you seriously suck at lying. Or acting like you’re not super into Doctor Clarke Griffin. That’s kind of been your MO forever.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“You care, Bell. Way more than I can even begin to understand. And—”   
  
“—The commissioner's office wanted me suspended again a couple weeks ago. Hit that guy from Nashville up high, defenseless player. It was—”   
  
“—Emotion,” Murphy cuts in, sharp and certain and Bellamy’s shoulders straighten. It doesn’t make much of a difference. 

Murphy just widens his stance and lets one side of his mouth tug up and—“Crossing your arms does not make you look like more of a badass,” Bellamy hisses. 

“Damn.”  
  
Bellamy huffs, hand finding the back of his neck. Several different things crack. That can’t be healthy. “It’s really messing with my head that you’re smart.”   
  
“God, maybe I’ll challenge you to a fight.”   
  
“Don’t you have a girlfriend to impress now?”   
  
“And?”   
  
“Probably won’t be very impressive if I deck you.”   
  
“Did you just use the word deck in actual conversation? How old are you?”   
  
“Loaded question,” Bellamy mumbles, because he feels eight-hundred and none of his muscles have actually spasmed since he got to Arkadia, but he kind of feels like they’re far too heavy and threatening to break several bones and he should probably just wear a sign that says _certified disaster_ at all times. 

“Every single person in this town knows that you and Doctor Clarke Griffin were making out in the basement of the hockey rink,” Murphy announces.

“People here need to find a better hobby.”  
  
“You are the hobby. The glorious son of Arkadia.”   
  
“That’s insane.”   
  
“Welcome home, part three. Also, it’s offensive how good you are at playing hockey when you feel like playing good hockey.”   
  
“Confusing sentence,” Bellamy says, if only to make sure he doesn’t actually do something stupid like lunge over the bar and clap Murphy on the shoulder. Or hug him. Neither one of them would be able to cope with that. 

“Yeah, well, you didn’t go to college. I keep telling people that should lose you points, but…” Murphy flashes a grin, another quick shrug. “It’s stupid that you didn’t think you got to come home. That anyone here would have thought any less of you. That any of us—the people who were there, who _knew_ , would have thought anything except that you deserve a break and a drink and—”   
  
“—Octavia totally texted you didn’t she?”

“At least a dozen times before you got here. And Indra’s basically waiting for you to start skating sprints around the rink. Work out some of that pent-up aggression.”

“They’ve got practice,” Bellamy reasons, resolutely ignoring the pointed arch of Murphy’s left eyebrow. “And I’m here because I couldn’t come up with a better place to go.”  
  
“A ringing endorsement. Put that on my Yelp page, huh?”   
  
“You have a Yelp page?”   
  
“It is 2020, Blake. Even the internet has found its way to Arkadia. Ask your other questions, then.”   
  
“Presumptuous.”   
  
“You tell Clarke she’s living in your house?”   
  
“It is not my house anymore,” Bellamy argues, and maybe Murphy is actually a psychic because he hands him a warm bottle of beer. Or maybe he does have a face thing. Neither option is great. “And she’s not the first person who’s lived there. That’s—there are only so many houses in Arkadia.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“Once more with feeling.”   
  
“You know why she moved to Arkadia?”   
  
Bellamy doesn’t slam the bottle down, so that’s something, but it’s awfully close. “You don’t? I thought Monty said she just wanted to get out of New York.”

“That makes sense, right? People figure she’s another one of those clichés. Poor little rich girl wanted out of her great life with all of its rules and expectations and money, to come down here and tend to us small town folk. But she doesn’t really spend much time here, keeps to herself.”  
  
“That’s because you’re a bunch of immature delinquents. She’s way more responsible. And she’s got a kid to take care of.”   
  
“You’ve met the kid.”   
  
“Is there a point to this?”

“Fuck if I know,” Murphy admits. “Mostly that she must be ok with you—or at least not hate your face thing and you’ve...if you tell Jordan or Green that I said any of the shit I’m about to say I will personally force you on the ice and repeatedly slash your ankles, you got that?”  
  
Bellamy salutes.   
  
“You tried to lift the entire universe. From the time you laced up until right now. And that’s not easy to do on the ice. It’s slippery.”   
  
“Fucking hell, Murphy.”   
  
“This is going to be almost acceptable. Wait a second. I get why you did it—all the pressure from this place and Indra, even your mom.” Bellamy’s eyes flash, an unspoken warning, but Murphy’s left eyebrow hasn’t returned it’s correct position and he knows there’s more. “They all thought you could do something in this game, Bell, and you can, but that pressure, that certainty that you’ve got to be everything or nothing, that’s going to fuck you up. It already has. Or you wouldn’t be here.”   
  
“You want me to leave?”   
  
“I want you to help with the inventory like you offered, but that’s some stupid pipe dream, so” Bellamy flips him off. “We watch the games,” Murphy says. “We’ve seen the stats. We’ve seen the fights. And you could still score on that one-timer if you wanted.”   
  
“But?”   
  
“But. If you don’t, the world will not end.You were an idiot, yeah, but that’s my point. Everything you’ve ever felt, Bell. Everything you’ve ever thought you had to be. Right there in your game. So, if you walk right now, or the end of the season or six seasons from now, people will get it. No hockey-induced apocalypse required. There’s other things, man. Good things. Stuff that—”   
  
“—You’re getting heavy-handed again.”   
  
“Fuck you, I’ve never given a motivational speech.”   
  
Bellamy chuckles, not much actual humor in the sound. And the beer is even warmer when he takes another drink, landing almost audibly in his stomach, but his mouth isn’t quite as dry anymore and his tongue almost feels normal. “You didn’t totally suck at it,” he says. “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”   
  
“Emori.”   
  
“Good name.”   
  
“Oh fuck off.”   
  
“I bet I’m better at inventory than her.”   
  
“No one could be worse at inventory than you,” Murphy objects. “You going to go make out with the good doctor again?”   
  
“One semi-human moment does not mean you get to ask whatever you want.”   
  
“She wants to be friends, huh?”

“I don’t have anything else to throw at you.”  
  
“So, you look like shit because of Clarke. Don’t flip me off again, either, it’s not creative.”   
  
Bellamy rolls his whole head, shoving off the stool and downing the rest of his genuinely disgusting beer. “You actually serve this to people?”   
  
“You must have garbage taste. You want in on the when will Monty actually ask Harper to marry him bet?” Bellamy nearly knocks the stool over. “Jordan’s running pretty messed-up odds,” Murphy adds, “but I’ll win more if you add to the pool, so…”   
  
“Yeah, sure.”

He slides a twenty across the bar, Murphy’s answering smile as honest as anything else he’s said all afternoon and—

“Get out of my bar. I’ve got work to do and you’ve got to figure out your entire life.”

* * *

The guy’s name is definitely Riley. 

He’s wearing a name tag now. So. Bellamy feels pretty confident. 

There aren’t as many people at Grounders at three-fifteen on a Monday afternoon, so the bell over the door sounds even louder than it should, Bellamy nodding in response to for-sure Riley’s smile as soon as he walks in.

“We’re out of croissants,” Riley informs him. 

“Yeah, I kind of figured, I’ll—can I just order them?”  
  
“So Octavia doesn’t apparate here and murder you?”   
  
“Something like that, yeah.”   
  
“Sure. How many are too many do you think?”   
  
“That limit does not exist,” Bellamy mumbles, another nod when Riley gives him the order form and he’s a little miffed by _that_ , but Arkadia appears to have found modernity at some point in the last few years and he orders four dozen croissants. 

It is an absurd number. 

It makes perfect sense. 

“Anything else?” Riley asks, and for a second there isn’t. There’s nothing else except what he was supposed to do and Bellamy’s almost impressive ability to project feeling onto otherwise relatively normal things. He opens his mouth, positive he’s about to say _no_ and _thank you_ , but then he’s shaking his head and his hair is in his eyes and—

“What’s Dr. Griffin’s coffee order?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy and Clarke are giant liars who lie. This is not a slow burn. We'll get back to our kissing soon. I genuinely cannot thank you guys enough for being wonderful. Forcing my hockey feelings on a new fandom was a little terrifying, but your response to this story has been an absolute delight. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) where I'm shouting about the real-life Rangers' playoff chances and inevitably screaming about the next fic I'm writing.


	4. Chapter 4

He goes the wrong way first. Which feels like a sign, but he didn’t go to the doctor that much when he was a kid and there are a million depressing reasons for that, so Bellamy ignores the sign and keeps walking. 

It’s a small building. 

With a receptionist. 

Whose eyes noticeably widen as soon as he walks. 

“Hi,” Bellamy says before she can, “I'm, uh—”  
  
“—Bellamy?” 

He jerks his head up, fingers tightening around the coffee, which only leaves him hissing slightly because Riley might have made sure the stupid thing was as hot as the surface of the sun. He’s got to stop with these sun metaphors. 

And yet. 

Clarke smiles as soon as she sees him, a stethoscope around her neck and hair that appears determined to reflect the lights in her office as well. “What are you—”  
  
“—I brought coffee,” he explains. Like the coffee isn’t obviously burning his hand. She’s biting her lip again. That’s only marginally distracting. In a good way. A possibly the best way. A forget about his hand entirely kind of way. “You know like people who...drink coffee.”

The receptionist laughs. 

That’s fair. 

This is not the smooth moment he hoped it would be. 

As friends. 

He’s not trying to push. He’s...falling over the ice. Metaphorically. Offsides, even. That might be a better analogy anyway — too quick into the zone and getting ahead of himself and—

Clarke’s hand is on his chest. 

She tugs the cup out of his hand, eyes not leaving his while she moves, which is also a little distracting and making it difficult for him to remember all the very legitimate reasons he came up with on his walk over here for why being friends with her was a very good idea. Bellamy can’t even remember the definition of the word friends at this point, gaze flitting towards her mouth on something almost like instinct and—  
  
“Fuck, that is so hot,” Clarke cries. 

The receptionist has to cover her mouth with her hand. 

Bellamy should learn more people’s names. 

“Why is that so hot?”  
  
“I’m going to blame Riley the coffee man.”  
  
“You did not just call him that,” Clarke laughs, twisting so she can put the cup on the counter behind her. The receptionist does not move. 

That seems problematic. 

Or not. For friends. Friends. Friends who bring coffee. Who show up at workplaces. Who keep staring at Clarke Griffin’s mouth. 

Like a total goddamn psychopath. 

“I cannot remember his last name,” Bellamy admits. “It’s driving me nuts.”  
  
“Yeah, you seem real worked up about it.”  
  
“Accusations?”  
  
“Facts,” Clarke corrects. She leans back, all casual ease and her feet crossed at her ankles again and it can’t be normal that he keeps noticing that. Bellamy will blame the lighting. And, like, the general rotation of the Earth. 

He does not know enough about that to make those kinds of claims. 

“I can’t ask him what his last name is,” Bellamy reasons. “And I don’t have Facebook or anything because—”  
  
“—You're a professional hockey player?”

“I’m going to start keeping track of the number of times you bring that up.”  
  
“I bet there are sections of the internet who do that already.”

She blushes. And Bellamy doesn’t quite know what to do with that — the color that rises steadily up Clarke’s cheeks and the side of her neck, teeth digging into her lower lip like that will erase the memory that’s already taking root in every single corner of his brain. 

“There might be,” he shrugs. “I don’t really pay attention to that, though.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“Would be pretty self-indulgent, don’t you think?”  
  
“Did Riley the coffee man know my order by heart?”  
  
Bellamy hums, and, if asked, he would one-hundred percent guarantee that he absolutely positively does not smirk on purpose. Or move his fingers into his hair, leaning forward half an inch until he barely notices the soft scrape of the receptionist’s chair on the floor. 

“He did. You put a lot of sugar in your coffee, don’t you, Princess?”  
  
“God.”  
  
“The one shot of vanilla surprised me, though.”  
  
“Did it?”  
  
“Only one? With all that sugar in there already?”  
  
“You have a lot of coffee opinions for a guy who got his order roasted the last time he was in there,” Clarke points out. “Did you get your sister her croissants?”  
  
“Yes, and was the roasted joke on purpose?”  
  
“I’m just that funny, it seems.”

“I guess so,” Bellamy nods. “Listen, I uh—I’m not trying to…”  
  
He trails off, because anything he says might be a lie, and that’s not what he’s trying to do. Not right now. Not after everything. And certainly not with Clarke. 

Bellamy is a mess. 

He needs to get on the ice. 

He doesn’t want to ask Indra to let him on the ice. 

“I appreciate the coffee,” Clarke says, the ends of her mouth quirking up when she takes a sip. “Shit, it is not fair that this place is better than anywhere i went in New York.”  
  
“Right?” Bellamy mutters. “I think I’ve walked half of the city trying to find somewhere that makes coffee as good as this. There was this one place, when I first got drafted, couple blocks away from the hotel room I was camping out in—”  
  
“—Wait, wait, hotel room? Did you not have an apartment?”  
  
“Uh—no.”

“That seems weird, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Didn’t want to jinx it.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Jinx it?” Bellamy repeats, but it comes a little like a question. Probably because it was a little insane. And is still just as depressing. Maybe they should just flirt some more. He hasn’t had any of his coffee yet. 

Friends don’t flirt, anyway. 

Friends with an expiration date. 

Fuck. 

“Oh my God, you are every single athlete stereotype in the world, aren’t you?” Clarke asks. “Ok, ok, so—you didn’t want to rent an apartment. Which you can do by the month in the city because you thought they’d send you—is there a minor league for hockey?”  
  
“We’ve got to get you up to speed on the terminology before Madi gets drafted.”  
  
“Is that an offer?”  
  
Friends. Friends. _Friends_. 

The coffee is still scalding hot when he gulps it, sputtering slightly and Clarke almost looks nervous, but there’s something on the edge of her expression that is just as interested as it was the day before and—

“I didn’t play in the AHL,” Bellamy says. “But you’re almost uncomfortably right.”  
  
“You have other superstitions? Aside from the music thing?”  
  
“That was a product of necessity. And what my mom listened to when we were kids.”  
  
Clarke doesn’t move, but the conversation shifts almost visibly — another questionably comfortable heaviness that wasn’t his goal with the coffee. Bellamy’s goal with the coffee was definitely flirting. 

And hanging out. 

With her. 

He likes hanging out with her. 

“I get that,” she breathes. “So, what else is there, then? A certain number of sticks taps or lucky boxers or…”  
  
“You want to talk about my boxers?”  
  
Clarke rolls her eyes. 

“When I left for development, O wrote me a list. Of all the things I was good at all and all the things I needed to get better at.”  
  
“Lots of opinions your sister, huh?”  
  
“Most of them unsolicited,” Bellamy grins. “But she knew what she was talking about. She stopped playing before I left, but she got better—good. Just not a lot of options for girls and that’s why it’s so cool Madi’s playing. She’ll make the game hers.”  
  
“Maybe I should just be recording you. All these motivational speeches.”  
  
“Honest.”  
  
Clarke makes a quiet nose, lower lip jutted out when she nods in agreement or approval and the specifics don’t matter because Bellamy is admittedly pretty preoccupied with the exact shade of blue her eyes have gone. 

“Do you keep the list in your equipment bag?”  
  
“You never should have left New York,” Bellamy says, “we could have brought you out in Times Square. Made a killing on psychic readings with the tourists.”

The moment threatens to break his spine. Quite suddenly. And it takes him a second to realize what he’s said — eyes widening with the understanding and the metaphorical feet, Clarke already waving him off like there aren’t several other elephants they’ve been ignoring. They shouldn’t have to. It’s been four days. 

And he’s lost track of the number of times he’s smiled around her. 

“You can check me if you want,” Bellamy offers. 

“I don’t know how to do that.”  
  
“A work in progress.”

It’s not the apology he’d like it to be — or the several thousand questions he’d like to ask, but Bellamy feels like he’s balancing on a skate blade and waiting for the opening faceoff and a slew of other vaguely athletic metaphors that only kind of make sense in the situation and he doesn’t hear Clarke at first. 

“What?”

“What do you get in your coffee?” she asks. “Must be pretty memorable if Riley the coffee man remembered after all your years of self-imposed hermit'dom.”  
  
“Maybe it’s that face that draws so much interest on the internet.”  
  
"Jeez.”  
  
He smiles. Again. “Way more french vanilla creamer than you get, but I don’t get any sugar either, so I think it evens out.”  
  
“Do you just?”  
  
“Grounders is the best coffee in the world and at least ten-thousand times better than most cities in the continental United States. And,” he clicks his tongue, counting off on his fingers, “the seven Canadian cities I have been to.”  
  
“Did you have to count the number of NHL teams in Canada?”  
  
“I always forget about the Jets.”  
  
“Isn’t that a football team?”  
  
“Oh my God, that’s insulting.”

Clarke lets out another laugh, a little breathless and Bellamy’s smile widens into something far too close to a smirk to be anything except the flirting he’s trying to avoid. It’s too easy. With her. At home. Bellamy Blake came home. 

And started staring straight at the sun. 

“You want half a croissant?” Clarke asks, scrunching her nose when Bellamy gapes at her. “Do not judge. You’re drinking creamer with, like, a side of coffee.”

“Got to get it while I can.”  
  
“Shit, that’s depressing.”  
  
“That could be the subhead of every story written about me now.”  
  
Clarke shakes her head, fingers tugging at the end of his jacket sleeve. “One half of a chocolate croissant, take it or leave.”  
  
“You don’t have patients?”  
  
“Garbage bedside manner if I did. Also, this is Arkadia, you know that right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Bellamy agrees, and her fingers aren’t as warm as the coffee, but there’s a softness to the way she tugs again that makes his heart lurch in his chest. It’s nice. “I’ll totally eat half your croissant.”

“Good, c’mon. I even have an office.”

* * *

There are pictures in her office. 

Frames on the wall and her desk, different shapes and sizes, like she couldn’t be bothered to pick or didn’t want to, wanted _everything_ , and Bellamy will never understand how his heart doesn’t explode right then and there. 

It’s the right place for it, after all. 

He’s fairly certain Clarke could fix it. 

And the frames are all filled. Smiling faces and at least half of them are Madi — most of them with some form of hockey equipment also involved, the New York skyline in a handful, tourist spots Bellamy’s done his best to avoid because all of them felt like ticking boxes off a list and even the thought of doing that alone was enough to make his breath catch. 

Then there are some photos that aren’t quite as bright, faded edges and colors that clearly came from film instead of some printer. 

There’s a man. With Clarke’s eyes and the same slope to his nose. A woman with a smile that isn’t quite like Clarke’s, but enough to be an echo, a memory in a polished frame. 

She’s only in two pictures. One with the man. And the other at graduation. 

Clarke’s diploma hangs up as well and a few photos that aren’t of people, but places — more from New York and a few of the ocean and—  
His gaze lands on a photo of a guy, young, with his arm around Clarke and another smile that stretches his face, lights up his eyes and makes something twist in Bellamy’s gut. It’s the only one of the guy, but it’s on Clarke’s desk, right next to another one of her and Madi. 

* * *

He brings her coffee again on Tuesday. 

Not for any reason except that he wants to. 

And he likes to. 

And it makes Clarke smile. 

He might be counting the number of times he can do that. 

Plus, no one seems to get sick in Arkadia. 

She keeps a stash of candy in the bottom drawer of her desk. 

“Are you just hiding all your chocolate from your kid?” Bellamy asks, slumped in the chair across from her. 

Clarke throws a candy at him. He catches it. 

“Should you be playing baseball?”  
  
“That’s not an answer.”  
  
“I am not hiding anything,” Clarke grumbles. “I am strategically placing things here, so that I can enjoy them without—”  
  
“—Having to share them?”  
  
“You think you’d hit for power or…”  
  
“Do you know things about baseball, Princess?”  
  
“Surprise.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“The reaction I was going for, definitely. Soccer too, though.”  
  
“I think you’re holding out on me with your athletic knowledge.”

She makes a dismissive noise, taking an exaggerated bite of chocolate that Bellamy will probably only think about for twenty-two minutes. Every hour. For at least the rest of his life. “Please, tell me how smart I am.”  
  
“Were the diplomas not obvious?”  
  
“You’re annoying, you know that?”  
  
“Give me some chocolate.”

She throws it.

* * *

Ice never really feels different. 

Except at Barclays.  
  
But that’s a different story.

Ice is cold. And slippery. And when Bellamy was a kid he took an almost questionable amount of pride in his ability to stop on a metaphorical dime, showering Jasper’s skates with snow every single time. 

So, really, he knows that the ice a few feet behind him isn’t any different than the stuff he’s been skating on for years. 

Ice is ice. 

At least it’s supposed to be, but no one has actually said anything about him getting on the ice and—“Hey, do you have skates?” Bellamy asks Monty, tucked in the hallway near the locker room on Wednesday morning. 

He can hear the rustle of equipment behind the door, the low hum of conversation and he keeps finding himself bobbing his head in time with the music that’s already playing. Bellamy resists the urge to squeeze one eye shut, Monty’s stare all but carving a hole in the side of his face. 

“Can you do that?”  
  
“Lace skates?”  
  
Monty flicks his arm. “Get on the ice. Participate in practice. Do you actually want to participate in practice?”  
  
“Eh,” Bellamy shrugs, a far more half-hearted answer than the one he’d actually like to give. He wants to get on the ice. He wants to get on this ice. If only to make sure it still feels the same. “Also, those are two very different questions.”  
  
“And yet not an answer to either one.”  
  
Monty widens his eyes, staying silent despite the judgment radiating off him, and there are footsteps coming towards them anyway. The conversation feels very cyclical.

“Hey,” Jasper calls, “Bell, Bell, what size are you feet?”  
  
Monty mumbles something that sounds like _oh my God_ under his breath, Bellamy turning slowly to find Jasper grinning like a variety of literary cats. There are skates hanging over his shoulder. “You’re going to fuck up the laces that way,” Bellamy points out.

“Trust me, these are already the least comfortable skates in the history of the game,” Jasper objects. “Whatever I do to them will probably help maintain the integrity of all the bones in your feet.”  
  
“Why does this sound like a line?”  
  
“Who are you flirting with using lines like that?”  
  
“Clarke,” Monty coughs, Jasper snickering and the guards on his skate blades look at least two decades old. “I don’t have extra skates, anyway,” Monty adds. “So, if some league rep isn’t going to descend from the heavens and—”  
  
“—You’re really very worried about that,” Bellamy interrupts. 

“Here,” Jasper says. The skates clank together when he thrusts his arm out, a confident and vaguely teasing smile. “If you break the blades, you’re going to pay to fix them.”  
  
“You think I’m going to break your blades?”  
  
“These skates might as well be in the Smithsonian—”  
  
“—Really got a high opinion of your own skates, huh?”  
  
“You want the skates or not?”  
  
“Obviously,” Bellamy sighs, hooking a finger under the knotted-up laces. They’re very brittle. And the locker-room door swings open, a smell Bellamy had almost forgotten about — musty air and what may genuinely be AXE body spray, which he didn’t know people still bought or used, and slightly damp equipment because hockey players are, by default, pretty goddamn disgusting. Especially as teenagers. 

Jasper laughs. “The more things change, right? Also, I’m only here to play hero and provide our dashing lead with skates, so you can go ahead and thank me right now.”  
  
“I’m getting on the ice,” Bellamy announces, like that was ever up for debate. “There’s no league rep. I drank with you guys already, so—”  
  
“You know the kids can hear you, right?”  
  
“A picture of responsibility,” Monty mutters, “c’mon, you can prove how good you are at lacing up on the bench.” He waves a hand above his hand, a quick movement that silences the team and gets them out of the hallway and Bellamy had been right. 

Same ice as always. 

He swings his legs over the boards — ignoring Monty’s glances, not nearly as covert as he thinks he is — a deep breath and stick in his hand and he didn’t bother putting gloves on. He hopes no one hits him in the hands. 

There’s a pile of pucks at either blue line, kids taking shots while Monty talks to the team’s two goalies, and Bellamy’s not a kid, but this ice kind of makes him feel like one, so he’s already rationalized grabbing a puck before he tugs one towards him. 

And immediately starts bouncing it on his blade. 

No one notices him for a moment, which is nice and only a little surprising, but that second thing also makes him feel kind of like a dick. The moment ends fairly quickly, anyway. Half a dozen kids realize he’s standing there, bouncing puck and all, and none of them are very good at stopping. 

Jasper’s skates are used to the snow showers, though. 

“Hey,” one kid breathes, a little wobbly even when he stops. His chin strap isn’t hooked. “Bellamy are you, uh—are you going to help with practice?”

He holds the puck on his stick. 

If only because two of the other kids try to correct the first and Bellamy can’t believe he hears some kid try to call him Mr. Blake—only certain it happens when Monty throws his whole head back, laughing uproariously in the middle of his goalie meeting. 

Both the goalies are staring at Bellamy. 

“Of course he is,” Madi yells. She jumps over the boards, a perfect landing that Bellamy makes a mental note to tell Clarke about and—Madi stops half an inch away from his skates. There are no showers. “He’s here, isn’t he? And he said he would. Hey, Bellamy.”  
  
“Hey, Mad.”  
  
He doesn't look at Monty. He knows Monty is looking at him. Because the nickname, shortened thing, _whatever_ , had just kind of fallen out of his mouth and Bellamy’s eyes drop to Madi’s stick almost immediately. 

“You do that?” he asks, nodding towards the near-perfect tape job. She grits her teeth. And scrunches her nose. 

He’s going to start a new wave of gossip at an U14 hockey practice. 

“Clarke did.”  
  
“You time her?”  
  
Madi laughs, smile obvious even through the full-cage helmet she’s got on. “Was I supposed to?”

“Nah. It’s—it’s good, though. And,” he adds, glancing around the ice and the practice that’s already come to a screeching halt before it’s even really started, “I’m definitely going to help. If my skates don’t break before then.”  
  
“I’m going to tell Jasper you said that,” Monty warns.  
  
“Do it! How do you start practice normally?”  
  
“How do you, professional hockey player?”

Bellamy huffs, not able to actually sound annoyed. “The shooting was good, but we should probably—I don’t know, do you guys do drills?”  
  
“Are you actually asking me that?”  
  
“We run some drills,” another kid answers. “Weaves and faceoff stuff and—”  
  
“—Power plays,” the entire team mutters. In surround sound. Bellamy blinks. And glances at Monty, every single one of his teeth on display when he grimaces. 

“In my defense,” Monty says, “these are kids, so power plays are always hard. Plus, I’m really banking on you perfecting our ability to win faceoffs in the zone.”  
  
“You don’t win faceoffs in your own zone?” Bellamy asks. 

“Don’t say it like that.”  
  
“You know there are more people on your team when you’re on the power play?”  
  
“I hope that league rep shows up and yells at you for being a jerk about my power play.”  
  
Bellamy chuckles, eyes flitting from kid to kid before they land on Madi. She shrugs. “We’ve been switching up units,” she explains. “But Connor can win faceoffs sometimes.”  
  
Connor seems to take personal offense to that. 

At least Bellamy assumes it’s Connor — a kid jumping forward and shaking off his gloves, and Madi doesn’t look all that impressed, just lets her head fall to the side when she crosses her arm and bends one of her knees. 

“Ok, ok,” Bellamy yells, a hand flat on Connor’s jersey. “Stop—” The kid tries to move around him, feet slipping under him. “Stop! We are not doing this.”  
  
“You fight people all the time,” Connor argues. 

Bellamy bites his tongue. Literally. Tastes blood in his mouth, a little coppery and a little jarring and for approximately two and a half seconds he focuses on only that. To ground himself. And then. He turns on Connor, brows pulled low and eyes going thin until the kid hisses in an inhale, leaning back like he’s trying to get away from the force of Bellamy’s expression. 

“Not my own teammates,” Bellamy says. “That’d be idiotic.”

Connor opens his mouth to object, but Monty snaps _hey_ where he’s perched on the boards now, and Madi hasn’t blinked yet. “I could have taken him,” she whispers. 

Bellamy tries not to agree with her. That wouldn’t be responsible either. 

He grins anyway. 

So does she. 

“The only way to have a working power play is if you guys actually work,” Bellamy says. “As a unit. No matter who’s on the ice. There’s more space out there in a 5-on-4, so you need to be able to move the puck, anticipate where the guy—” Madi rolls her eyes. “—Or girl, is going to be. You’ve got to be half a second quicker than what the defense will expect you to be. They’re the ones playing down, playing catch up. So, don’t let them catch you.”

There’s a long silence as soon as Bellamy finishes, but then Monty’s blowing a whistle and the kids are moving and—“Can you show me how to win in the zone?” Connor asks, hardly loud enough for Bellamy to hear. 

He nods. “Absolutely.”

* * *

“You should have seen him,” Monty proclaims, swaying just a bit on his stool. “Skating around, barking out instructions. Completely taking over my power play.”

“That is not what happened,” Bellamy objects. 

“Liar, liar.”  
  
“Let’s not talk about Blake’s pants, huh?” Murphy asks. He pushes a bottle towards Bellamy without asking if he wants one, but Bellamy is also torn between riding some weird high of fixing an U14 team’s power play unit and being a little frustrated that Clarke didn’t see. 

She wasn’t at practice. 

He should probably ask for her phone number at some point. 

Like friends. 

Bellamy takes a drink, gagging because this isn’t beer, this is—“Did you give me a wine cooler, Murphy? What year is it?”  
  
“Well,” Murphy mutters, “I figured since we were all going to act like teenagers, we should drink like teenagers for the night. I want an accurate number, Green. How many times did he glance longingly at the stands?”  
  
“At least seventeen.”  
  
“No,” Jasper and Harper shout in tandem and Bellamy does his best to melt into the floor. It doesn’t work.

“I swear to several different gods,” Monty promises. “Bell, Bell, tell me several different gods I can swear to.”  
  
“Shut up, Monty,” Bellamy sneers. But that only earns him several squawks and laughs from his friends and he knows he doesn’t imagine the dollar bills changing hands a few feet away. “Your power play sucks.”  
  
“Why do you think I asked you to show up?”

“To make five bucks?”  
  
“Nah, I’m going to lose ten. I didn’t think you were longing quite as much as you were.”  
  
“We are friends.”  
  
“Yeah?” Jasper balks. “You invite her here? So you guys can play air hockey again?”  
  
“I didn’t know they played air hockey,” Harper hisses, twisting so she can grab her phone. Bellamy’s head is going to crack open. That might be because of the wine cooler. It’s far too sugary. “Did she win?”  
  
Jasper shrugs. 

“Yes,” Bellamy sighs. “She wrecked me.”  
  
“Oh God, it’s like watching the Bellamy Blake dating ritual,” Murphy complains. “No wonder you looked like shit before.”  
  
“Where’s your girlfriend, Murphy?”  
  
“Coming down this weekend. So—fuck you.”  
  
“I love it when we can all get together like this,” Jasper grins. “And you should seriously tell Clarke to hang out with us, Bell. One, loving family. Ready and willing to rag on you and your lack of air hockey talent.”  
  
Bellamy finishes the rest of his wine cooler. 

* * *

“What’s your favorite NHL city?”  
  
“NHL only?”  
  
Clarke scowls. “How many cities have you been too?”  
  
“A lot,” Bellamy says. “And, uh—fuck is it super lame to say New York?”  
  
“Yes. Me too.”  
  
“Yeah”  
  
Clarke nods. “I miss it sometimes. And I know Madi does too, but she’s happy here and that’s what really matters. Plus, sometimes it kind of felt like you were shouting into the void, didn’t it?”

“Spending too much time in Midtown, Princess.”  
  
“Please, my mother would have a coronary.”  
  
“She sounds wonderful.”  
  
“Most NHL cities are cold, aren’t they?” Clarke asks, brushing over the subject of her mother quickly. And obviously. Bellamy doesn’t mention that. “With the cold and everything?”  
  
“We don’t play outside. At least not all the time.”  
  
“Have you played outside?”  
  
“All the time here.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant.”  
  
He stretches his legs out. Clarke’s lips twitch. “Once. We played the Caps at Nationals Park in the Winter Classic. I like playing in D.C. too, actually.”  
  
Clarke doesn’t say anything, but part of Bellamy knows she understands. That it was a bit like being home and playing outside was a bit like being a kid. 

He brought blueberry muffins with the coffee that afternoon. 

“I heard practice went pretty well yesterday.”  
  
Bellamy nods. “It was—weird?”  
  
“Weird?”  
  
“I’m not some authority.”  
  
“Those kids thought so. Madi did. There’s a brand-new dent in the living room wall from her trying to practice that wrister.”  
  
“Check your terminology.”  
  
“Are you not worried about my wall?”  
  
“Ah, yeah, that’s true,’ Bellamy laughs. “I’m sorry about your wall. And she’s totally going to score on Friday night. Monty said they’re going to switch up the power play units. What we worked on in practice.”  
  
She’s silent for a moment and it’s that moment that lets some of the doubt creep back in, but Clarke’s eyes seem to light up and Bellamy can’t think straight and—“Look at your terminology,” she mutters. “Coach.”  
  
“You’ll do dangerous things to my ego. And I was only helping.”

“You have fun, though?”  
  
“Yeah,” Bellamy answers honestly. “They’re definitely going to score on the power play now. Plus, I did see a left winger out there with an incredible tape job on her stick.”

“It wasn’t thirty-two seconds flat.”  
  
“Did you time yourself?”  
  
“No, that would be insane,” Clarke grins. “I kept thinking about how you were talking about the straight lines and getting moisture in the stick and, seriously, Bell, I have spent so much money on sticks, it’s absurd. But,” she flutters her fingers, “doctor’s hands. So I’m pretty steady when I have to be.”

She didn’t mean it. 

He knows it. 

He’s sure she knows it. 

The receptionist absolutely knows it.

But something in the back of Bellamy’s mind latches on to the very specific sound of Clarke Griffin calling him _Bell_ like he’s been waiting for exactly that to happen. He’s never been worse at being friends with anyone in his life. “You weren’t, uh—there was no lurking yesterday.”  
  
“Strangely enough, someone actually got hurt in this town,” Clarke says. “Nothing major, but one of the guys who works with Luna out by the Bay. Cut his hand on fishing wire. Needed a couple of stitches, so I couldn’t get out of here quick enough.”  
  
“Shit, that’s impressive.”  
  
“What is?”  
  
“The stitches,” Bellamy says, like it’s obvious. It is to him. Not to Clarke. If the look on her face is anything to go by.  
  
“What was that about egos?”  
  
“Yours should be much bigger.”

She ducks her eyes, a dismissive noise and quick shake of her head that makes her hair shift and all he can smell is raspberries. 

Oh. 

“Favorite movie?”

“Jason and the Argonauts.”  
  
Clarke’s feet slide off the edge of her desk. “Is that a joke?”  
  
“That was groundbreaking at its time, you know,” Bellamy says. “The stop motion with the skeletons and the choreography of that fight. Changed the modern movie industry.”  
  
“You read that somewhere.”  
  
“Yes, because it’s my favorite movie.”  
  
“Are you a secret nerd?”  
  
“If you ask any of my friends they will tell you I am a very obvious nerd.”

She grits her teeth and Bellamy doesn’t mean to lean forward until he already is, tugging Clarke’s fingers away from the half-finished bag of mini Hershey bars because it’s Thursday and he keeps bringing her coffee. “You could come with me sometime,” he says. “To the bar. Or—well, that’s really the only place. They’re idiots, but you could totally get in on the when will Monty actually ask Harper to marry him bet.”  
  
“Did you come up with that name?”  
  
“I’d give you very good odds Harper did.”  
  
Clarke laughs, not pulling her hands away from Bellamy’s. “We’ll see. Madi’s got that game on Friday, so it depends on timing and—”  
  
“—Ok,” Bellamy cuts in. “We’ll play it by ear, then. Favorite food?”  
  
“Pizza.”  
  
“Color?”  
  
“Eh,” Clarke wavers, “green? Maybe blue. No, yeah, yeah blue. Blue.”  
  
Bellamy quirks an eyebrow. “You want to backtrack on that?”  
  
“Did that not sound certain?”  
  
“It did not, no.”  
  
“What’s your favorite color, then?”  
  
“I am contractually obligated to tell you blue.”  
  
“Are the fancy hockey people listening?”  
  
“Always.”

She laughs. And he doesn’t hoard the sound, so much as he lets it settle under his skin and wrap around those tired muscles, ground him in something good and normal and good again, just for emphasis. 

* * *

“Bell,” Monty calls, the crunch of gravel under his shoes when he jogs to catch up, Bellamy just leaving Clarke’s office and they’d finished the bag of Hershey’s. “Hey, uh—you got a second?”  
  
“More than, actually.”  
  
“You’re smiling,” Monty accuses. He’s half out of breath by the time he catches up to Bellamy, his hands in his pockets and a lopsided smile that, admittedly, does not have anything to do with Monty’s distinct lack of athleticism. 

“Am I?”  
  
“You going to buy stock in Grounders or…”  
  
“What do you need Monty?”  
  
“Well, uh—it’s not a huge thing. Just...Wick totally bailed on me for tomorrow’s game and I need some help. Not an assistant, really, but—”  
  
“—You want me to help coach your game?”  
  
Monty waves his hands, a strangled sound that Bellamy assumes is supposed to sound like yes. “You were good at practice. The kids loved you and, you know, you’re not an idiot.”  
  
“Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”  
  
“I’ve never seen our power play move like it did yesterday. This is not a huge thing. No one’s demanding commitment from you past tomorrow night. Just—stand there with a whiteboard and occasionally help with shift changes. If we get a too many men penalty, I’m blaming you, though.”  
  
“This is not a good sell, Green.”  
  
“Does this break a contract for you or something?”  
  
“Not that I’m aware of.”  
  
“Then…” Bellamy sighs, not resignation, but trepidation and nerves and Monty mumbles the next few words. Like he doesn’t want to say them. “Might help in that totally not flirting with Clarke ploy you’ve been running.”  
  
“Stop talking to my sister.”  
  
“I’m not. She got her croissants, she doesn’t need me anymore.”  
  
Bellamy rocks his weight between his feet — a far too telling movement because it’s what he used to do when they were kids, lined up on the blue line and waiting, waiting, _hoping_ for everything and then some. Monty grins. 

He knows he’s won. 

“This is it,” Bellamy says. “One game. Three periods.”  
  
“You going to bolt if we go to overtime?”  
  
“Oh, my God.”

“I was not joking about the too many men thing.”  
  
“I know you weren’t. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
Monty claps him on the shoulder, a quick nod and Bellamy falls asleep with nerves in the pit of his stomach. Just like every other game. 

* * *

**Octavia Blake, 1:27 p.m.:** SEND ME FILM. 

I bet I could help with your power play. 

**Bellamy Blake, 1:29 p.m.:** If memory serves, you were usually the one giving other teams power plays. 

**Octavia Blake, 1:30 p.m.:** Wow, that’s rude. 

Does this mean you won’t send me film?

 **Bellamy Blake, 1:33 p.m.:** I don’t even know if Monty has film. 

**Octavia Blake, 1:34 p.m.:** Are you kidding me? Of course he does. I bet he spends hours analyzing the schemes you came up with. 

**Bellamy BLake, 1:34 p.m.:** That’s probably true. 

**Octavia Blake, 1:36 p.m.:** Let me watch the highlights later, ok?

And you’re totally going to win. 

And the croissants were really good. 

* * *

“Hey,” Clarke says, surprise coloring all three letters when Bellamy walks into her office. He’s got two more cups of coffee and another round of baked goods clutched in one hand, power play schemes and faceoff tips bouncing off every corner of his brain, but the receptionist, whose name is Maya and she’s very nice, hardly blinked when Bellamy opened the door. 

The routine is nice. 

It’s normal. 

It’s—

“Hey,” Clarke repeats, and Bellamy doesn’t flinch when she finds a way into his space. That’s nice. That’s normal. “I didn’t think you’d have time today.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Bell. C’mon, you think I didn’t hear? Great NHL player on his homecoming tour—”  
  
“—Am I touring somewhere?”  
  
She ignores him, stabbing the tip of her finger into his chest instead. He’s holding too many things to curl his own fingers around her wrist. Less nice. Decidedly unnormal. “I’ve already heard about it sixteen times from my kid and three different times when I was in Grounders this morning and—”  
  
“—You went to Grounders this morning?”  
  
“Did you not think people were going to talk about this?”

He sighs, twisting around her to drop everything on her desk. Clarke’s finger doesn’t move. It hooks in the fabric of his shirt, like she’s trying to tug him back towards her or make sure he stays right there and going back to New York suddenly feels much closer than it did twenty-four hours earlier. 

He’s ridiculously nervous. 

“What’s happening with your face?”  
  
“Is that an insult?”  
  
Clarke clicks her tongue, a step back so she can balance on the edge of her desk. Bellamy’s lips pop when he opens them, but she just smiles because—“I can see the coffee is there, I’m not going to spill it.”  
  
“Do you think Monty just knocked on people’s doors and told them that I agreed to help him out today, or…”  
  
“I can’t come up with a more reasonable response to you agreeing to help him.”  
  
“It’s not that impressive.”  
  
“That hole in my living room wall says otherwise.”  
  
“I can ask Indra if she knows someone who can fix that.”  
  
“Why the face thing?”  
  
“I have no face thing,” Bellamy argues, only to get a nose scrunch in response. As expected. He’s gotten used to this. To her. And them. And coffee, sharing and talking and Bellamy hopes Clarke bought more chocolate because the blueberry muffins are definitely not as good as the other baked goods at Grounders and he still doesn’t know who that guy in the picture is. 

“Are you ok?” 

“What?”  
  
“We’re going in circles again,” Clarke mutters, nodding towards the open chair across from her. “I really didn’t think you’d have time today.”  
  
“For you, Princess?”  
  
She presses her lips together, an appraising expression. Bellamy’s knee cracks when he sits down. “Is ok not the right word, then? Nervous? Is that a better word? I didn’t think professional athletes would get nervous.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“It’s cool if you are.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Broken record.”  
  
“Old sentence,” Bellamy challenges. “And I have some time. Today, I mean. For this and—”  
  
“This?”

It feels like his other knee cracks. He hasn’t actually moved anywhere, though, which means the sound Bellamy hears might just be his heart or his soul or possibly his sanity, but part of him is almost too excited for the game later tonight and the power play and _helping_ , maybe even winning. Another metaphor. 

And he’s running out of time in Arkadia. 

“You know,” Clarke says slowly, hands flat on either side of her legs, “when I first got here I was terrified. Of—of all of it. Starting over and my mom is…” She shakes her head, eyes falling closed against the clear weight of her memory. Bellamy bites the side of his tongue. “I told you I followed all the rules when I was a kid, every expectation, every plan laid out at my feet. But sometimes the plan gets totally fucked up, doesn’t it?”  
  
He doesn’t answer.  
  
Knows that whatever is happening right now is tremulous and cautious and he’s pretty preoccupied with the way Clarke’s tongue flashes between her lips. So. 

“It does,” Clarke nods. “I, uh—I get the nothing. What you said before. After losing and then, um...Gina? That’s… me and death go way back.”  
  
“You’re making jokes,” Bellamy whispers. 

“Easier to cope with that way, isn’t it?”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
Clarke pulls in a breath through her teeth. Neither one of them have moved to drink their coffee. “Which story would you like first?” she asks. “The dead dad, the lying asshole boyfriend or the dead best friend? 

“Shit.”  
  
“That’s not an answer.”

He stands up, and there wasn’t much space between the chair and her desk, but Bellamy crosses it in half a second flat, Clarke’s legs snapping apart so he can step between them and she leans into his hand as soon as his palm cups her cheek. 

“I was eighteen when my dad died,” she rasps. “Just starting college. All the previously discussed plans. To live up to the Griffin name and my mom’s idea of what made you a good person and—”  
  
“—You are a good person.”  
  
“Interrupting is rude.”  
  
It takes every single ounce of self control Bellamy is only marginally sure he has not to kiss her. Right there. In her office. With his thumb tracing half circles on her cheek. 

He can feel her smile against his skin. 

“Anyway,” Clarke adds, “the whole thing was as depressing as advertised. He was young and—well, depressing. My mom threw herself into her work. Even more than she did when I was a kid. As if saving strangers would be penance for my dad. And I kept on the plan, but part of me wondered if it was a good plan and I got into med school and everything was what it was supposed to be.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But. The world is a giant joke. He had a girlfriend the whole time, said it didn’t mean anything, he loved me. All the bullshit you’d expect. Two weeks before I graduated.”  
  
“Two weeks,” Bellamy says, mind racing to try and do the math. Clarke snaps her teeth. 

“Seriously, people are underestimating your intelligence.”  
  
“You flatter me, Princess.”  
  
“That’s part of why my mom wasn’t in on the adopting Madi thing. It wasn’t that long after Finn and she thought I was just...I don’t know, rebelling against that. No love for a boyfriend, so I’d transfer that to some poor kid.”

“Jesus.”  
  
“Right? Like one was the same as the other. Madi didn’t have anything to do with Finn. It was—” Clarke shrugs, head dropping when it appears her neck doesn’t want to participate in the conversation anymore. It collides with Bellamy’s chest. 

He kisses the top of her hair. 

And hopes she doesn’t notice. 

Or does. 

It’s a weird line to walk. 

“I wanted to help,” Clarke breathes. “Someone. Anyone. And Madi showed up and—”  
  
“—You did,” Bellamy promises. She pinches his side. “I know, I know, no interrupting. But that’s...Clarke, you’ve got to know you did something incredible here.”  
  
“Compliments.”  
  
“Honesty.”  
  
She hasn’t lifted her head yet, but Bellamy swears he can almost feel her smile even through his t-shirt and team-branded apparel and he hasn’t really been thinking about it. Hasn’t allowed himself to. Because the week is almost up and Cinderella’s got to leave the ball or _whatever_ , but part of him. 

Part of him wants with every single thing he’s made of and then some. 

Wants this and them and coffee and baked goods and perfect tape jobs. 

“I ran too.”

He hums in confusion, rolling his shoulder until Clarke begrudgingly meets his gaze. She blinks, eyes gone glossy, and he understands. The guy in the picture. 

“When?” Bellamy asks softly.

“Six months ago. Wells and I grew up together. Parents were friends and he—well, he got it, you know? Everything I hated, he hated right back. And then some. If only because I would shout about it. He loved Madi too. Didn’t understand a thing about hockey, but he’d sit there and ask what offsides was and she’d tell him. Every single time. Every game.”

Clarke takes a shuddering breath, the back of her hand dragging across her face before the tears can start to fall. Bellamy’s stomach twists. “He, uh—he used to talk about this place.”  
  
“Wait, what? Here? Arkadia here?”  
  
She nods. “Yeah, Wells’ dad, he was a Congressman. Was in D.C. half the year and a couple times, when the session ended, he’d take them here. Usually so he could still work, but Wells talked about the water a lot.”  
  
“Was he the lawyer?”  
  
“Honestly. Smart.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“Same thing that always happens,” Clarke mumbles. “Idiot drivers. People making mistakes. Dying. The asshole.”  
  
“And you came here?”  
  
“Ran. Quickly”  
  
Bellamy shakes his head, lets it drop down to rest against Clarke’s and for a second neither one of them say anything else. They stay right there, the same air and raspberries and his hand falls from her cheek. So it can find the curve of her waist, pulling her close enough that her foot hooks around the back of his calf and—  
  
“Ah, fuck,” Bellamy hisses, Clarke’s eyes widening. “There’s just...there’s a bruise there. Blocked a shot last game.”  
  
“That should not still be bruised.”

“No?”  
  
“Absolutely not.”  
  
“Well, you’re the doctor.”

Clarke lets out a mirthless laugh, the ends of her mouth quirking up. “I am, in fact. Sorry for the depressing garbage.”  
  
“It’s not garbage. Or something you have to apologize for. I wanted to know.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Bellamy echoes. “I get the running.”  
  
“Maybe that’s not always a bad thing. The running, I mean. If you’re—God, saying running towards something is lame, isn’t it?”  
  
“Incredibly. But maybe right. Running’s the worst, anyway. Straight cardio like that? It’s not good for your knees, at all.”  
  
“And skating is?”  
  
“It is, actually. Less pressure. Less stress. There have been studies.”  
  
She laughs, shaking her hair off her shoulders and all Bellamy can smell is raspberries and all he wants to do is kiss her until it feels like he’s standing still. Not running. Not racing. Just. Enough. “I think the coffee’s probably cold,” Clarke says. “Do you—well, I know we’ve been baked goods only all week, but I am starving and athletes have pre-game meals, right?”  
  
“You know somewhere good to get whole wheat pasta in Arkadia?”  
  
“Oh, God, that sounds gross.”  
  
“And I’m not actually playing.”  
  
“Still nervous though.”  
  
“A little,” Bellamy admits, and there is no physical way for him to be closer to Clarke while they’re still wearing clothes, but that’s a thought he cannot possibly entertain right now and it doesn’t matter. She smiles when he sighs, reaching up to brush a few strands of hair away from his eyes. 

“We’re going to win.”  
  
Possessive and collective pronouns.  
  
“The grilled cheese at the diner on Mason Avenue is delicious.”  
  
Bellamy takes a deep breath. “Yeah, it is. Ok, let’s go do that.”

* * *

Clarke puts her fries inside her grilled cheese before she eats it. 

So, it’s a miracle Bellamy actually gets to the rink at all. 

* * *

“You’ve got to stop pacing, it’s freaking me out.”  
  
“I can’t pace,” Bellamy growls. “There’s not enough room on this bench. Was it this small when we were kids?”  
  
Monty chuckles, head snapping back to the ice. There’s not much of a crowd, but it still manages to do its best to roar, a tie game in the third and Bellamy’s stomach in his throat and they’re 0-for-2 on the power play. 

He’s trying very hard not to throw his whiteboard. 

That’d piss Monty off. 

And both linesmen are in the middle of the scuffle happening in the far circle, at least three Arkadia players and a mess of limbs and shouts and whistles. Bellamy’s eyes narrow. He’s not sure how he knows, but something tugs lightly at the back of his consciousness and knows—Madi emerging from the middle of it all with a snarl on her lips and one of her gloves on the ice. 

“Polis, number eighty-seven,” the ref announces, “cross-checking two minutes.”  
  
“Ah, fuck,” Bellamy mumbles. 

Monty scoffs. “That’s the spirit. Hey, maybe we’ll actually get a shot this time around.”

Bellamy doesn’t bother responding, starts pacing again instead, bumping against the backs of at least three different players, and Connor wins the faceoff. 

The puck moves around the zone — a glorified tic-tac-toe game that they’d practiced on Wednesday, and the Polis kids are obviously exhausted. It’s late in the game and they’d iced it right before the penalty, not able to change lines. They keep dropping down, trying to block shooting lanes, but none of them are really pressuring and Bellamy feels his eyes widen when he sees it. 

A sliver of space on the ice. 

And Madi planted in the circle. 

“There,” he yells. “Right there! There!”  
  
He jumps up, barely keeping his balance on the few inches of bench not occupied by kids or their equipment, and it really did feel bigger fifteen years earlier. “Right there,” Bellamy repeats. His voice cracks. Which would be embarrassing if he weren’t also flailing his arms in the air, most of his weight pressed on his right toes while he tries to get even taller. “Swing it! God, move it, move it, move it!”

They do. 

The puck hits Madi’s stick, and Bellamy is positive she actually smiles at the defender in front of her, breath catching in his throat, because he’s done that more times than he can count, trash talk without the talk and—

“Forehand, backhand,” Bellamy chants, Madi moving like she can actually hear him. “Slide it. Move, move, move, pull it, Mad—Pull it!”

“Shoot, shoot,” Monty cries. So does the rest of the bench. She doesn’t. 

She waits, pulls back and the defender drops down, slides across the ice and Bellamy’s jaw clenches when he counts the seconds. One, two, three—“Shoot, Madi!”

She does. 

He can barely keep track of the puck when it sails into the net, top shelf, and no deflection, knocking the water bottle off in the process. Bellamy nearly dislocates his shoulder when he jumps, head on a swivel because the celebration on the ice is pretty goddamn impressive, Madi dropping to a knee and pumping her arm and that looks far too familiar too. 

“Shades of rookie season, huh?” Monty asks.  
  
Bellamy rolls his eyes, only to let them scan the crowd, Clarke on her feet and a smile on her face and he counts the seconds again as the clock ticks down, a one-goal win and ecstatic team and he’s back in the hallway a few minutes later, trying to keep up with Octavia’s text messages. 

He’s won games before 

Recently, even. The Rangers won before the break. 

It doesn’t seem to matter. 

Because for as much as the ice has always felt the same, this feels decidedly different — something he didn’t know he could care about again, could let it drop back into the center of his soul and light something, almost a bit like joy and entirely like love and Bellamy has loved this game for as long as he can remember. 

It just took a little while to do that. 

And he hears her before he sees her. 

Soft footfalls and raspberries and she’s still smiling when he glances up. 

Clarke doesn’t break her stride, even as Bellamy stuffs his still-vibrating phone in his back pocket, and there’s something just on the edge of her expression — all quiet determination and steady confidence and want, want, _want_. It is, he will argue, why he reaches out, fingers finding hers and tugging her towards him. 

She bumps his chest when he pulls, Bellamy’s elbow colliding with the wall, but then his hands are around her waist and her back arches again and Clarke tilts her head up, mouth on his and fingers pushing into his hair. 

Her other hand falls to his shoulder, tracing across his t-shirt until she finds skin. Bellamy tightens his arms, searching for the hem of her jacket and the goosebumps he’s only slightly hopeful he’s leaving, tilting his head so he can kiss her harder and longer and everything is spinning. 

He’s not convinced he’s not the one spinning. 

Double negatives are confusing. 

And nothing about this is negative, couldn’t be when Clarke is involved, the way her breath catches and she whines slightly against his lips, eyelashes fluttering, like she can’t quite bring herself to look at anything else. 

Bellamy noses at her cheek, breaking apart only to fall back together, and, at first, he doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes as well. He doesn’t open them. He lets himself fall into the feeling, the way Clarke rocks up slightly, his hand trailing up her spine and the back of her neck, cupping her head so she stays right there, with him, and this and them and he can feel her smile. Taste her laugh. It settles in every inch of him — again, sparks that light a fire and that emotion and maybe next time they make out somewhere they can do it outside the rink. 

He wouldn’t mind a bed. 

At least a couch. 

Clarke lets out another breathless giggle, nipping on his lower lip, and Bellamy might actually growl in response. It gets a bigger laugh and another arch of her back, letting his hand hold her up as he chases after her. 

Friends, for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you this wasn't a slow burn. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) where I am ignoring all real world issues and how much I miss hockey already.


	5. Chapter 5

“Oh,” Clarke breathes, a quick inhale and shift of her shoulders and neither one of them tries to move away from the other. That’s good. Great, maybe. Even when she adds—“So, that was...huh.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“Jeez,” Bellamy mutters. He still can’t bring himself to move. And his fingers appear to have minds of their own, tracing over the tiny bit of skin just underneath the hem of her rucked-up jacket, the product of canted hips and exceptionally good make-out talents. “Should I be offended by that?”  
  
“No, no, that’s just—”  
  
“—Articulate.”  
  
“Remember when you told me to check you before?”  
  
“We’d have to find you a stick.”  
  
“Probably have to move, then.”  
  
“These are very mixed messages you’re sending, you know that, right?”  
  
Clarke sighs, and he almost starts apologizing, maybe for the tugging or whatever his hand is still trying to accomplish across the small of her back, but then her tongue is flashing between her lips again and every reasonable thought Bellamy has ever had soars out him. Straight through the crack in the window. 

“I just—” Clarke starts, gritting her teeth when she shakes her head. Bellamy is going to bite his tongue in half. “It’s unfair how good you are at that.”  
  
He blinks. 

Once, twice. Opens his mouth only to close it again. And tilt his head himself, mind going blank, partially because all the thoughts have already raced out in metaphorical fashion, but also because he can’t possibly be expected to come up with any sort of reasonable response when Clarke is looking at him like that. 

“And I don’t,” Clarke adds, “well—I don’t normally do that, but—”  
  
“—But?”  
  
“God, the interruptions.”  
  
“This is not an organized conversation.”  
  
“You are very good at being a hockey coach and kissing.”  
  
He hums, doing his best not to preen a little at the compliment. It doesn’t work. At all. Clarke rolls her eyes. “You want to expand on that for me, a little bit? Kissing you specifically, you think? Or, just—like in general?”  
  
“You are fishing for compliments.”  
  
“And you’re handing them out.”  
  
“What was that you told me? Have you seen you?”

Bellamy is not sure what noise he makes. It’s somewhere between a gasp and a grown, maybe another growl, and the alliterative thing is only kind of weird, but then his arm stills and there’s not any space between them. He moves her anyway. Tugs again, ignores the way Clarke seems to fit all too perfectly against him, dropping his head so he can drag kisses along her cheek and the side of her jaw, hissing softly when her fingers card through the back of his hair.

“This is stupid,” she mumbles.  
  
“Less of a compliment, really.”  
  
“Has anyone ever told you that you might have a future in this game? It’s almost like you know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Almost,” Bellamy echoes, the word barely that when most of his face is tucked in the crook of Clarke’s neck. He cannot imagine how someone hasn’t found them yet. He’ll have to come up with a list of gods to thank for that. 

Later. 

He’s busy right now. 

“Feel free to focus on how attracted you are to me, though,” he mutters, if only so he can hear Clarke click her tongue. And laugh. It’s very quickly becoming his favorite sound. Which doesn’t seem quite so insane anymore. 

She lets her nails scratch against his neck, a hitch in his breathing and smile on her face when she rolls her shoulder, and it’s impossibly easy. All of it. On some existential level. And a kissing level. 

Her tongue is back in his mouth. 

And that’s good. Goddamn fantastic, but the thing that gets him, that makes everything else fall away and time pause for a moment so Bellamy’s thoughts can catch up with the erratic beat of his heart is—

Clarke’s hand finds his cheek, palm flat on skin and the stubble there. It’s not much. An innocuous thing, really, but it’s calm and normal and her fingers are warm. Bellamy turns his head, lips ghosting over the inside of her wrist. 

Her eyelashes flutter again.  
  
“Good at that,” she mumbles. 

Bellamy hums, a deep breath that’s as simple as, well, breathing, and at some point Clarke’s left foot found its way on top of his right. Like she’s trying to occupy the same space he is. He wouldn’t argue. “So, uh—” he says. “That whole friend thing was…”  
  
“Seriously, have you seen your face?”  
  
“Bringing you coffee was flirting.”  
  
“I picked up on that.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I’m very smart.” He grins, half a laugh and another wholly human inhale that only feels a little strange after years of the opposite. “And, you know,” Clarke continues, “friends was more an excuse and a—” She shrugs. “—Defense mechanism is lame, right?”  
  
“No, it’s not.”  
  
“I like talking to you. It’s been fun. Even with the depressing bullshit and you’re kind of secretly funny, which is totally unfair. But, uh—then today...you showed up even when I didn’t think you would and at one point I was convinced you were going to stand on the bench so you could coach harder.”

“I considered it,” Bellamy admits. “Also coach harder?”

“Shut up. I like...you?”  
  
“Phrase that as a question again, please.”

She swats at his chest, barely keeping her balance, but people pay Bellamy to play a sport, so he’s got pretty good reflexes, catching Clarke around the wrist so he can pull her hand up to kiss the bend of her knuckles.  
  
“Did you do that before?”  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“The, uh,” Clarke stammers, “I was like, ninety-six percent positive there was a hair-kissing thing that happened during depression-hour 101.”  
  
“Catchy title.”  
  
“It’s the only thing I thought about in the diner. It’s been driving me nuts.”  
  
“Let’s avoid that.”  
  
“Yes or no answer.”

Bellamy nods. “I like you too.”  
  
She flushes, smile stretching across her face like it’s the most natural thing in the world and the only response she could possibly come up with, eyes bright and light and some other word, but Bellamy is mostly focused on light and its reflective properties. In regards to Clarke’s hair. 

His phone is going to buzz out of his back pocket. 

“Plus,” Clarke adds, “the coaching thing was genuinely very attractive.”  
  
“You should see me actually play.”  
  
“I’d like that.”

And he’s just about to ask what the hell that means and if he should just have comp tickets waiting every single time they play the Capitals for the rest of his career, but it was only a matter of time until someone found them and Bellamy never did thank the gods. So. Retribution, or whatever.

It’s just not the interruption he expects. 

Maybe the gods like toying with him. 

Indra crosses her arms when she stops — a few inches away from Bellamy’s foot, which is quickly losing feeling while Clarke continues to stand on it. She doesn’t say anything at first, eyes sweeping the scene like she’s looking for forensic evidence that someone has desecrated her hallway, and that’s another God-type reference that doesn’t really make sense in the situation and Clarke is blushing. 

“Your daughter is very good,” Indra says, gaze landing on Clarke. Bellamy is holding his breath. “She's got a hell of a shot.”  
  
Clarke nods slowly. “Yeah she is. And does. Has? Has, right?”  
  
“Right,” Bellamy confirms. He cannot feel his right foot at all anymore. 

Indra’s expression doesn’t change, not really, but he’s known her long enough that he can pick up on little things and Bellamy is certain one side of her lips twitch. His lungs have started to burn from lack of oxygen. “That’s a very familiar move for this rink,” Indra says. “You did good today, Bellamy.”  
  
“Madi still had to make the move.”  
  
“That’s true, but you’re very loud on the bench.”  
  
Clarke’s head is on a swivel, eyes wide when they meet Bellamy’s. He tilts his chin up, trying to look taller or more adult. That doesn’t work either. It’s a weird pair of not-working things. 

And Indra smiles. 

Also weird. And just as nice.  
  
“Madi had the lane,” Bellamy says, careful to keep his voice light despite the weight of the words and the fore of Indra’s smile and Clarke’s fingers find his. They fit well together too. “Defender never had a chance. And she’s the one who made the shot. Monty should put her on the shootout too, I bet she’d deke every goalie in the Tidewater.”  
  
“Or we could think bigger than that.”  
  
“What?” Clarke asks sharply, fingers tightening. 

Indra shrugs. “There are options, Doctor Griffin. For Madi and what she’s capable of doing. Outside of what’s available here in Arkadia.”  
  
“You want to move Madi?”  
  
“Not necessarily. Most NHL teams have programs for female players and I do know some people in the Capitals front office. Then of course there are national teams, camps and—”  
  
“—Developmental,” Bellamy finishes.

“Exactly,” Indra nods, and it sounds like a memory and feels like a moment, and Clarke’s fingers have become a vice around Bellamy’s. “Not as extensive as the men’s side, of course, but, like I said, options. Chances to be seen. Play on a much higher stage.”  
  
Clarke makes a noise. That one might not have a name either, half sarcasm and entirely protective and Bellamy finally remembers to breathe again. “I’ll think about it,” she says, more doors slamming shut a few feet away and he probably should have been in the locker room with the team. That’s got to be negative coaching points. 

“Clarke, Clarke, Clarke,” Madi chants, her equipment bag dragging behind her. “Noah’s mom said she was going to order pizza for everyone and I—” 

She cuts herself off, eyes falling in almost slow motion to Clarke and Bellamy’s tangled fingers. 

Indra might laugh. 

Bellamy might buy one of Indra’s cabins. 

“Smarter than both of us combined,” he mumbles, Clarke’s laugh only a little strangled. He considers that at least several points. 

And his phone has not stopped making noise yet. 

“Can I go?” Madi presses. “For the pizza and—”  
  
“—Yeah, of course,” Clarke says. “You know how I feel about pizza.”  
  
“Everyone should have more chances to eat pizza.”  
  
“Is that a catchphrase?” Bellamy asks, and Clarke just waves a dismissive hand. The one that’s not still holding his. Neither one of them tried to move. Round forty-seven. Or, whatever. 

“Pizza is our favorite food,” Madi explains matter of factly. And her eyes flash again, a hint of nerves when she presses her lips together because—“Did you think it was a good shot?”  
  
Bellamy has to glance down to make sure his heart has not, in fact, exploded out of his chest. 

It feels that way. 

There’s a distinct stutter to his pulse, a push and pull that should probably leave him breathless and overwhelmed. It doesn’t do either. It leaves him...calm. Possibly optimistic. Vaguely hopeful. 

Even with the deadline. 

He’s not going to think about that. 

“That defender is going to think about you wrecking him for the rest of the season,” Bellamy says. Clarke’s tongue clicks again. And Madi jumps. Several inches in the air. She starts talking, recapping the goal and the move and the play, words flying out a mile a minute until Clarke gets that look and Madi snaps her teeth together. 

“Pizza,” Clarke says, and Bellamy’s never heard the word sound like an order before. 

Madi nods enthusiastically, a quick hug for Clarke and — much to his surprise — Bellamy, arms wrapped around his middle and laughter ringing in his ears, even as the equipment bag gets dragged back down the hallway. 

And for a moment, that’s the only sound. 

Clarke and Bellamy stand there, his thumb tracing the same half-circle against her palm because he can almost hear her thoughts and her worry and Indra is right. Madi is far too good to get stuck in Arkadia. 

“You want to get out of here?” he asks, before he can lose his nerve. Or wake up. He knows it’s not a dream. 

“What?”  
  
“I mean, if we want to test our continued kissing success—”  
  
“—Oh my God, I take it back.”

“There’s only one bar in town, but…”  
  
“What are you asking me, exactly?”  
  
“I’m asking you out, Princess, it’s disappointing that wasn’t more obvious.”  
  
Clarke moves off his right foot, spinning so she’s in front of him again and her hands are on his chest. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

* * *

“A group date, huh?” Murphy asks, half an hour later in a mostly-filled bar. He’s got a towel draped over his shoulder again, an almost impressive amount of bottles in either one of his hands, “Was the best idea you could come up with?”

“Are you not a group date right now?” Bellamy argues. He nods in the direction of the other new face to their group, and it took him about half a second to decide he liked Emori. 

“I am working. You’re flirting.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s true.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“Not the first time I’ve heard that tonight, honestly.”  
  
“Is that weird?”  
  
“That it happened or that I’m telling you?”  
  
Murphy barks out a laugh, setting bottles down in front of paying customers. Bellamy hasn’t paid for a drink yet. “Either or, really. You just going to stand here while Monty and Jasper interrogate your date, or—”  
  
Bellamy spins on the spot, only a little frustrated that he wobbles slightly. He hasn’t had enough to drink for that. Or anything to drink, honestly. And Clarke doesn’t look all that intimidated, perched on the edge of one of the tables in the corner, feet crossed at the ankles and an almost entertained look on her face. 

“What do you think they’re talking about?”  
  
“Do you not have legs to walk over there?” Murphy quips, a quick hum of acknowledgement to several shouted orders. 

“Yeah, but—”  
  
“—Oh you’re nervous.”  
  
“Don’t say it like that.”  
  
“He looks a little nervous, doesn't he?” Emori adds as she ducks behind the bar. To start pouring drinks. Bellamy wonders if that’s a normal thing. He kind of hopes it is. “What’s that Kylie Minogue song we should be playing?” 

Bellamy gags. “Murphy, are you quoting Kylie Minogue at me?”  
  
“No, obviously,” he hisses. “And I’ll text Octavia later. I bet she remembers. Also, Jasper and Monty are either telling your girlfriend about that time senior year that you came home for two weeks for O’s birthday and we got trashed on watermelon vodka—”  
  
“—Oh God.”  
  
“I want to hear that story,” Emori mutters.  
  
Murphy shakes his head. Bellamy assumes. He’s still too busy staring at Clarke. Honestly, the cyclical nature of this whole weekend has been ridiculous. “Nah you don’t,” Murphy says. “It mostly boils down to Blake’s inability to play Kings.”  
  
“You guys come up with stupid rules,” Bellamy grumbles. “What was the or?”  
  
“Or they’re telling her how stupid into her you very obviously are—”  
  
“—I think she might know—”  
  
“That sounded like an admission, didn’t it?” Emori whispers. Bellamy glances over his shoulder, her smile a little confident and questionably teasing for someone he met twenty-two minutes earlier, but she also slides two glasses towards him. “No watermelon, I swear. Also, I think there was some mention of a return to form and some tradition that must be honored before you left, so that’s probably what they’re talking about.”  
  
Bellamy’s head falls back, something cracking in his neck, which Murphy is far too quick to point out while it also sounds like he’s actually cackling. And Bellamy doesn’t run, although he does nearly take out two unoccupied chairs, Murphy’s laugh only growing louder as he moves, slamming into Jasper’s back. 

“Fuck,” Jasper growls. “Are you made of marble?”  
  
Harper grins. “It’s all those athlete muscles. What do they say about hockey thighs?”  
  
“Please stop talking about my thighs,” Bellamy sighs. He can’t see Clarke’s lower lip, twisted as it is between her teeth, and he left the drinks at the bar. 

“Did Murphy spoil the surprise?”  
  
“The new girlfriend did.”  
  
“Ah, that’s rude, Bell,” Monty chides. Jasper keeps rolling his shoulders, trying to get Bellamy to move. He doesn’t. He ragdolls — as a verb. “We didn’t call Clarke your new girlfriend.”

He rests more of his weight on Jasper’s back. 

Until Jasper’s right knee buckles.  
  
“Oh God,” he groans. “Seriously, you weigh a metric fuck.”  
  
“That’s not how that works,” Clarke objects, voice even and as teasing as Emori’s smile had been. Bellamy curls his arm around Jasper’s front. “You know—like, scientifically.”  
  
“Are you funny, Doctor Griffin?”  
  
“Yes. And Doctor Griffin is my mom. Stop that. You’re not funny.”

Bellamy laughs — directly in Jasper’s ear, ignoring the fists that slam into his thighs, like that will actually get him to stand up straight again. “Seriously, get off me,” Jasper sneers. “And we haven’t even gotten around to asking what Clarke’s opinions are on your hockey thighs, so—you know, friendship awards.”  
  
“Did you know that most hockey players have to buy special jeans?” Harper asks. “Oh, oh, oh, you know what we should talk about? Disaster rookie Bell and his first encounter with tailored pants. That’s a fun story.”  
  
“No, it’s not,” Bellamy objects. Clarke’s lips quirk, though, higher-than-usual eyebrows and slightly wide eyes and maybe she can recommend a cardiologist. What with his exploding heart and all. 

“Clarke looks interested,” Harper says. “It’s a very quick story. Just—don’t interrupt, Bell.” He sticks his tongue out. “Ok, once upon a time, a very talented hockey player named Bellamy Blake got drafted. He moved to the big city with wide eyes and the hopes of an entire town on his shoulders—”  
  
“—Laying it on almost too thick, don’t you think?”  
  
“What have we said about interrupting?” Clarke asks. Both Jasper and Monty let out nearly identical gasps of mock surprise. 

Bellamy tightens his arm. 

“Can I finish now?” Harper mutters. “Anyway! He goes to New York. He lives out of a hotel room for four months. And is told that he has to wear suits when he gets to games. Only our young hero has never really worn suits before. Because of the previously discussed thighs, you see?”  
  
Clarke doesn’t answer the question clearly meant for her, just lets one side of her mouth quirk up and Bellamy resists the very real urge to pull her away and kiss her some more. 

“So, Bell buys some dress pants. A few ties. One singular jacket.”  
  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Clarke says suddenly, “one jacket?  
  
“I will allow your interruption since this story is for you.”  
  
“And when you tell it so well.”  
  
Harper lets out a laugh, fingers moving through the air and pointing at Bellamy like that proves _that_. “You can stick around. But, yeah, one jacket. He wears it. Again. And again. Over and over. And it doesn’t fit. Neither do the pants really, way too big around the waist, and the belt never matches his tie—”  
  
“—Is your belt supposed to match your tie?” Monty mumbles.  
  
“Your shoes,” Bellamy answers.

“See, he knows that now,” Harper laughs. “This goes on for months. Literally until the break when little disaster rookie Bellamy Blake is named an All-Star.”  
  
Clarke gasps. “You were an All-Star as a rookie?”  
  
“She sounds impressed, Bell,” Jasper says. 

“I am.”  
  
“See, you want to stop choke-holding me now?”

Bellamy loosens his arm, Jasper taking an exaggerated breath, while Harper eyes them all contemptuously for daring to interrupt again. “Last time, McIntyre,” Bellamy promises. 

She flips him off. 

“He needed a new jacket. And pants that fit because he kept skating and kept playing and, seriously, hockey thighs are vastly underrated as just— like, a body part. So, a plan was formed. Research was done. Tailors in the greater Tribeca area. One was found, Bellamy complained about it for at least four days straight and walked the red carpet before skills with pants that actually looked good. A hockey phenom was born. Women swooned. Men swooned. He won hardest shot.”

There’s not quite a stunned silence — can’t be, in the middle of The Dropship on a Friday night, but Bellamy counts the seconds before one of them says something and he wants Clarke to say something and—

“The end,” Harper says, as if that’s all they were waiting for. 

Clarke laughs. Not loud, not at first, soft and a little gentle, like it’s testing the waters or some other pun to do with ice that’s more appropriate. “They’re good pants,” she shrugs, inspiring more laughter and a disgusted sound from the bar even as Emori moves towards them. 

With drinks in hand.. 

“You forgot these,” she says. 

Bellamy exhales. “Thanks.”  
  
“I have been informed that you guys are, and I’m quoting here—”  
  
“—Wasting time,” Murphy calls. “If we’re going to do this, we’ve got to get to the schedule.”  
  
“Yeah, that exactly,” Emori mutters, dropping next to Clarke. “Whatever that means. Here,” she adds, “one of these are yours.”  
  
“Should I be drinking before whatever scheme is being plotted?”  
  
Jasper’s laugh is starting to sound a little deranged. “Seriously, you’re genuinely funny. And scheme’s got a very negative connotation. This is not negative.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Bellamy challenges.

“Dick. We want to make you captain.”

“No shit.”  
  
“Well, now we’re obviously reconsidering it.”  
  
“Does someone want to explain what’s going on?” Clarke asks, hissing when she takes a sip of her drink. “Shit, what is in that?”  
  
Emori shrugs, another soft chuckle from Murphy’s direction. “Uh— rye whiskey, ginger beer, bitters and lemon juice. And I think they’re talking about hockey.”  
  
“Always, babe,” Murphy yells, but Monty’s already shaking his head. Bellamy still hasn’t had anything to drink. 

He feels a bit drunk anyway. 

Because it’s not just about hockey. 

“That’s not really what it is,” Monty says. “It’s—yeah, it’s a hockey game, but it’s…”  
  
“More than the game,” Bellamy finishes. 

Clarke hums in interest, another sip of her drink and shiver that moves through her whole body. In a distracting sort of way. 

“Seriously, you all suck at telling stories,” Harper grouses. “Ok, fine, I will explain. Once upon a time—do not look at me like that Bell. Good stories start with once upon a time.”  
  
“Do they, though?”  
  
“You can tell some ancient thing later if it’ll make you feel better.”  
  
“It might.”  
  
“The point,” Emori implores, Harper gnashing her teeth in Bellamy’s direction. 

“Right, right, right. When we were kids, we had a long-standing tradition. An outdoor pick-up game. It happened this weekend, every year. To time up with the All-Star break. There were captains and teams picked and it was very involved, like—almost questionably involved, and we won’t be able to do all of that. Especially since we can’t really play, not if Bell’s going to go back without any new bruises, but we thought it’d be fun. Weeks Lake is frozen solid, so we probably won’t drown.”  
  
“Small miracles,” Bellamy grins. 

“We thought we’d play three on three. Make it easier.”  
  
“Did you just?”  
  
“Seriously, we’re going to preemptively revoke your captaincy,” Monty announces. “And then I think I win by default.”  
  
Bellamy’s eyes bug. “They named you captain?”  
  
“Don’t say it like that, fuck.”

“So how does it work, then?” Clarke asks, and something in the back of Bellamy’s brain and the very center of his soul starts at that. The interest in her voice and the distinct lack of a disgusting combination of alcohol in her glass. “Do you win something?”  
  
“Uh, glory,” Murphy responds. He slings an arm around Emori’s shoulders when she’s close enough, a sheet of paper pinched between his other fingers. “And bragging rights. Presumably for the rest of time, since who knows when this will happen again.”  
  
“Think happy thoughts, huh?”  
  
He winks. Badly. 

“And it’s about more than glory,” Monty says. “This is—a tradition unlike any other.”  
  
“That’s the Master’s,” Bellamy argues.  
  
“Do you want to be captain or not?”  
  
He nods. Words are suddenly rather difficult — the size of the question and the meaning behind it, all that history and tradition, the return to form it absolutely is. Plus, Clarke. Looking right at him, all expectant and just as hopeful as Bellamy’s starting to allow himself to be. 

“We’re doing the draft tomorrow,” Jasper announces, still trying to work out of Bellamy’s grip. He can’t. It’s good trash talk fodder. “Do we remember the rules?”  
  
“Am I supposed to answer that?” Clarke asks.  
  
“Do you want to play?”  
  
The words have to just be words again at some point, Bellamy is sure. No unspoken meaning or metaphorical heaviness, but he lifts his eyebrows when Clarke keeps staring and—“Yeah, of course I want to play.”  
  
“Good,” Jasper nods. “Emori’s going to play too. You can—you can bring your kid if you want.”  
  
“Ah, but she’s so much better than Murphy’s going to be,” Monty complains. “Plus, they’re doing a team thing tomorrow night. Also should we be advocating bringing a kid into a bar?”  
  
“No,” both Clarke and Bellamy say, which—yeah, ok. 

Murphy kicks Monty. “Better draft high, then. And the rules are simple. We draft, we drink, without the kid, we play the required music.”  
  
“There’s required music?” Clarke balks.  
  
Bellamy hums. “It’s very serious business.”  
  
“And his music, so,” Jasper adds. “Half of these rules are Bellamy’s, do not let the overall circumference of his thighs distract you from that fact.”  
  
“I think you might be obsessed with Bellamy’s thighs, Jasper,” Clarke points out. 

Harper’s hand flies to her mouth, Emori twisting so her laugh is pressed into Murphy’s shirt. Monty finishes his drink. 

“He stole my skates,” Jasper reasons. 

Bellamy groans. “I’m going to give them back.”  
  
“No, you’re not. And are well decided, then? Tomorrow, be here or be square and then we fight to the death for our eternal hockey glory?”  
  
“We should get that on shirts.”

“You’re the rich one.”  
  
“And I’m not fighting anyone to the death,” Harper adds. “So, just jot that down.”

Bellamy chuckles, moving back into Clarke’s space — and he doesn’t actually move his arm, but her fingers graze his and his wrist twists and they fit too well. Maybe he’s the one giving extra meaning to words. Unspoken or otherwise. 

“Alright,” Murphy says, hopping back to his feet when someone at the bar calls for him, “who needs refills? Also, you’re paying tonight.”  
  
There’s a general outcry from the lot of them, more than a few coasters tossed at the back of Murphy’s head, and Clarke beats Bellamy at air hockey half a dozen times. 

None of them pay. 

* * *

**Octavia Blake, 11:47 p.m.:** Holy shit that kid is good.  
Like. I’m retroactively intimidated by that shot.   
Can you imagine even thinking about dropping down to block that? She’d break his kneecap.

 **Bellamy Blake, 11:50 p.m.:** That wasn’t really the goal, you know.

 **Octavia Blake, 11:51 p.m.:** No. The goal was the goal.   
Which she got.   
Did Indra try and recruit her already?  
That’s a dumb question. You know I still know some people who could do some stuff too. Some girl I played with a million years ago is front office with one of the teams in the women’s league.  
Also, FYI, if no one calls me to sing the Anthem during the traditions, I’m going to be really disappointed. 

**Octavia Blake, 12:07 a.m.:** Also, also, we finished the croissants. 

* * *

It looks like it’s going to snow. 

There’s a distinct chill in the air when Bellamy wakes up on Saturday morning, shuffling towards the coffee maker in Indra’s cabin and Clarke kissed him before she went home. Or the other way around. He’s not overly concerned about specifics, more about the way he’s certain he can still feel the press of her against his mouth, the way her arms slung over his and at some point he really needs to get her phone number. 

If only because he’s fairly certain the doctor’s office isn’t open on the weekend and—

He nearly drops the coffee container at the first knock on the door. 

She’s got a scarf on again when he swings open the door, two cups of coffee in her hand and half a smile, more than a few flakes of snow in her hair. 

“You’re not wearing any socks,” Clarke points out, nodding towards Bellamy’s bare feet and he’s got to stop making these sounds. They don’t even sound human. 

“I just woke up.”  
  
“Oh, shit. Sorry, I can—”  
  
“—No, no, no,” Bellamy says quickly. “Come on in. That’s better coffee than what I was going to make anyway.”  
  
“Riley the coffee man promised it was the right order. Even though—I’d like the record to show, I totally remembered so. Points.”  
  
“Several of them.”

Clarke hums, twisting around him and into the living room, finding the arm of the couch as Bellamy does his best not to worry about what’s going on. He’s exceptionally good at worrying. 

“Is everything ok?” he asks. “Nothing’s wrong with Madi, right?”  
  
“Wow, straight to the deep end of concern, huh?” He grimaces. And Clarke hisses in a breath between her teeth, holding out her hand so he’ll take his coffee. “Again, that was not meant to sound as shitty as it absolutely did.”

“I’m not easily offended. You should see what they write about me in the tabs these days.”  
  
“Do people cover hockey?”  
  
“That’s admittedly more offensive.”  
  
Clarke laughs, glancing up over the top of her cup. “I know it’s early. But, uh—I had...I don’t know, questions, I guess. Several, well, two main ones.”

“Is this about Indra?”  
  
“Also Jason and the Argonauts.” He didn’t expect that, the surprise coloring his face if Clarke’s answering look is any indication. “I illegally downloaded Jason and the Argonauts last night when I got home. And you keep talking a big nerd game—”  
  
“—I’m an exceptionally big nerd, let’s not doubt that.”  
  
“Probably shouldn’t be endearing, right?”  
  
“You say that like I’m not going to endorse any moment of you being attracted to me.”  
  
“Did I say that?”  
  
“Sounded like it, weird.”  
  
Clarke scoffs, but she also doesn’t throw anything at him. So, points. “Do you think Indra is right? That Madi should play somewhere else?”  
  
“That’s not what she said. She said that Madi could play someone else.”  
  
“Semantics.”  
  
“No, it’s not,” Bellamy says. She got his coffee order right. Or Riley the coffee man did. Those are more semantics. “Madi doesn’t have to go anywhere. She doesn’t have to do anything. Could—I don’t know, fly to the moon or something instead of playing hockey. That’s up to her. And, you. But mostly her. She shouldn’t have to feel like any of this is being forced on her.”  
  
“I don’t think she would. I mean I can barely get her off the ice as it is. She—she loves everything about this game.”  
  
“I get that.”  
  
“I know you do,” Clarke mutters. “That’s why I’m here. At the crack of dawn.”  
  
“It’s like eight in the morning. Also, they have morning skate. And we used to have to practice before school to get the ice time. I’m not great at sleeping.”  
  
She considers that for a moment, shoulders dropping half an inch when she lets out a burst of air. And Bellamy’s walking. Before he realizes he really even wants to, back between Clarke’s legs with enough warmth radiating off her that he’s sure it will keep his coffee at an appropriate temperature for the rest of the morning. 

"You deserve to get some rest,” she says. “That’s—that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? For the break and the quiet?”  
  
“You’re not loud, Clarke.”

“Is that what I asked?”  
  
“Didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke admits. “I—I feel like I’m not making any sense. It just caught me by surprise, I guess. And it shouldn’t have. That’s shitty, isn’t it?”  
  
“Be more specific.”  
  
“Madi is good at hockey.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“God, you’re no help at all.” 

Bellamy chuckles, fingers trailing across her cheek and he can’t quite mask his groan when Clarke’s head drops. Directly against his ribs. She tries to move, pull back or maybe run away again, but Bellamy’s hand lands on the back of her neck, as little pressure as he can muster while he does his best to keep her exactly where she is. He is drowning in metaphors, honestly. 

“Do you think she should do it?” Clarke presses. “I mean—she’d have to go away, right?”  
  
“Like Indra said, there are options. And it’s fucked up, but developmental isn’t as deep when it comes to women’s hockey.”

“That’s why she had to play for Monty. There wasn’t another team.”  
  
“Fucked up.”  
  
Clarke hums. Into his t-shirt. “Yeah. It is. This is starting to sound a little no comment, though.”  
  
“It’s not my call,” Bellamy says. 

“You’re a professional hockey player.”  
  
“There it is again.”  
  
Clarke huffs, finally lifting her head and he’s seriously got to make that list. With the gods. Maybe while they watch the movie. Because she tilts her chin up, enough emotion in her eyes that Bellamy wishes he could drown in that instead of the metaphors, something that almost feels like she could—“I trust you,” Clarke says. “And what you think. And what you know about all this hockey stuff. I just—I guess I’m looking for a second opinion.”  
  
“The terminology.”  
  
“Bell.”

“She’s good, Clarke,” he says honestly. “And she deserves a chance to do something great in this game. Change the whole fucking thing if she wants to.”  
  
“You’ve got very high expectations.”  
  
“Hopes. There’s a difference.”  
  
“Yeah, there is,” Clarke nods. “Indra mentioned that thing about camps with teams. Is that a real thing? I mean—D.C. isn’t that far away.”  
  
“If Indra said it, then it’s absolutely true. She’s probably already cut a highlight video to send to Team USA, if we’re being honest.”  
  
“And that’s what we’re doing, then?”  
  
“To a fault,” Bellamy promises. The words shake a bit, when Clarke’s fingers find their way under the hem of his shirt, tracing idle patterns that he’s going to feel for the rest of the day. Week. Month, probably. “She wouldn’t have to go anywhere,” he adds, “not if she didn’t want to or you didn’t want her to—”  
  
“—That shouldn’t be my call either, though. Should it? I mean, that’s what I did. Had the expectations and the plans and what I thought I had to do because my mom wanted it. End the cycle or something.”  
  
It isn’t easy to crouch down between Clarke’s legs with a cup in his hand, but Bellamy makes the effort anyway and her lips twitch when he kisses the edge of her mouth. “You are ten-thousand times the mom your mom was. Or any mom I know of.”

“Stop it.”  
  
“We agreed on honesty to a fault, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah, but I don’t need your mom coming back to haunt me or something for insults you’re dishing out.” He chuckles, another kiss because he can’t come up with any other reasonable response. Clarke nips at his lower lip. “Even if they’re nice.”  
  
“Nice insults?”  
  
“English is a weird language.”  
  
Another kiss. Another nip. Bellamy nearly falls over. 

It makes Clarke laugh. 

“I’ll talk to Madi about it,” she says. “And even if she did want to do a camp or something—it’s, that’s only a couple weeks, right?”  
  
“In the summer, usually.”  
  
“So. Off-season.”  
  
There’s no question. Nothing more than a statement of fact, really. And yet. Bellamy’s brain flips and his stomach turns to knots and his heart does that exploding thing again. He has no idea how he manages to nod. “Yeah,” he rasps. “During the off-season.”

“Ok. So, uh—Jason and the Argonauts?”  
  
“Deal.”

* * *

“Oh, ok, so this guy is kind of a jerk, huh?” Madi asks, staring at the TV intently as stop-motion skeletons explode from the ground. 

Bellamy hums, Clarke making a noise of obvious disagreement. “This Jason guy is trying to steal the king’s fleece and his girl. I’d be pissed too.”  
  
“He’s genuinely summoning skeletons,” Bellamy reasons. “Also Aeëtes is not the hero of the story.”

“His name’s not in the title,” Madi adds softly.

“Jason is the jerk of the story,” Clarke says. There are at least four blankets in her general vicinity, not much more than the top of her neck and head obvious above the fabric. They’ve gone through an entire bowl of popcorn. “Doesn’t he kill Madea?”

“That’s a different story,” Bellamy says. “Also you’re missing this.”  
  
Madi lets out a soft _whoa_ when the skeletons snap to attention, leaning back with something Bellamy can only hope is awe when they move and —“Whoa,” she says again. “This is actually pretty cool.”  
  
“Right?”  
  
“I never said it wasn’t cool,” Clarke grumbles. “I’m appropriately impressed. Just—Jason seems like a jerk. And there should be some more consistency in these stories.”  
  
“That would take all the fun out of it,” Bellamy reasons. 

“Are the Argonauts having fun? That guy just got stabbed.”  
  
“Ok, he’s probably not having fun.”  
  
She laughs, twisting in a way Bellamy can only begin to understand, but then Clarke’s head is on his shoulder and her legs are pulled up against his. That’s the important part. “They’re kind of angry looking skeletons, aren’t they? Straight up frowning.”  
  
“They’re dead, Princess.”  
  
“And they probably didn’t want to be fighting,” Madi adds, one of her arms moving like she’s following the choreography on screen. “Whatshisface king had to ask some god for help, right?”

She glances at Bellamy when she asks, and he can’t help his smile — or the hand that moves towards Clarke’s bent knee. “Hecate,” he says. “Goddess of everything from crossroads to magic, herbs, poisonous plants and ghosts.”  
  
“The skeletons aren’t ghosts.”  
  
“Some liberties were taken.”  
  
“Why do you know that?” Clarke asks.  
  
“About the movie?”  
  
“Goddesses.”  
  
“Oh,” Bellamy mumbles, “My mom used to read the myths to us when O and I were kids. All the good, ancient stuff.”  
  
Clarke nods, that lower lip thing happening again and that only makes Bellamy start thinking far too big thoughts. “Do you have really strong opinions on the Disney version of Hercules?”  
  
“Don’t ask that question later.”  
  
“Is that code?”  
  
“There may have been a childlike incident when I was an actual kid—”  
  
“—Oh my God, did you yell about Hercules?”  
  
“No comment,” Bellamy says. 

Clarke’s whole body jerks forward with the force of her laugh, eyes falling closed anda hand falling to Bellamy’s chest. “You were not kidding about the nerd, were you?”  
  
“Seriously don’t insult me like that.”  
  
“Can we watch Hercules next?” Madi asks. 

“God, no,” Bellamy grumbles at the same time Clarke says, “yes, absolutely.”

They watch Hercules. 

* * *

**Octavia Blake, 7:26 p.m.:** Seriously. The anthem. 

**Bellamy Blake, 7:34 p.m.:** I’m not singing. 

**Octavia, Blake 7:37 p.m.:** Liar. 

* * *

“You’re doing that nervous face thing again,” Clarke says, half a block away from The Dropship. Her hands are at her own side, which is only a little disappointing, but it’s already been the kind of day that Bellamy is determined to brand on every inch of his memory and push into the space between his ribs and—“Yeah, just like that,” Clarke adds. 

She taps his cheek. 

“Several pennies for your thoughts.”  
  
“Several?”  
  
“That’s a compliment.”  
  
“Yeah, I got that,” Bellamy says, and he can hear the music before they even turn the corner. Like more memories he’s done his best not to linger on, the thought of them like a bruise that won’t go away or a paper cut, a hint of bitterness and tinge of regret and—

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

Clarke blinks, both of them coming up short of The Dropship door. “Yeah, me too.”  
  
“This is going to be nuts, you know that, right?”  
  
“Is this you warning me?”  
  
“A little,” Bellamy admits. “They were not kidding about the rules and we’re all going to talk shit during the draft and—”  
  
“—If you think I can’t hold my own during some trash talk, I’m going to punch you right in the face, I swear.”  
  
“Noted.”  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
“I believe you. There’s an anthem.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“It’s not—no one’s hand over heart’ing or anything, but—”  
  
“—Did you just use heart’ing as a verb? Clarke interrupts. 

“You know what I meant.”  
  
“I promise I do not.”  
  
Bellamy can’t get enough tension in his jaw — he’s not tense. He’s happy and breathing evenly and he’d only spent five minutes critiquing the inaccuracies of Hercules while Madi shouted Zero to Hero at the top of her lungs, so he figures he’s doing a pretty good job. Of, like existing. 

But this is a big thing and an important thing and he doesn’t want anymore bruised memories. 

“Ok," Clarke proclaims, reaching for his hand and tugging until his arm stretches in front of him. She’s walking, that’s why. “Let’s go.”

* * *

They’re going to break the jukebox. 

The music that blasts out of it is almost questionably loud — Clarke wincing as soon as the door closes behind them, but then there’s a cry of excitement from the back of the bar because they’re the last ones there and there really is a schedule and he’s going to be pissed if he doesn’t win the coin toss to draft the first player. 

“Nice of you guys to show up,” Murphy yells, pointing towards the waiting drinks. “We were going to forfeit your entire team.”  
  
“Then there’d only be one team,” Bellamy points out. “Tough to play a game that way.”  
  
“I’m going to slash your hands every time you touch the puck.”  
  
“Wow,” Clarke drawls. “You weren’t kidding about the trash talk, huh?”  
  
Bellamy rolls his eyes, directing her towards a stool and the alcohol burns the back of his throat when he downs most of it in one gulp. 

“Murphy’s going off the cuff, “Jasper explains. “Some of us,” he tugs a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket, “have come prepared.’  
  
“Is this a joke?” Monty exclaims. “You wrote stuff down?”  
  
“Yes. I will now start with you. Marry your girlfriend. I’d like to win money.” Bellamy’s forehead falls to Clarke’s shoulder. It smells like raspberries. “Harper, marry your boyfriend and learn how to tell stories in a more direct manner. Murphy, you suck at mixing drinks. Emori, you do not suck at mixing drinks, but I am scared to drink any of your drinks.”

“And that’s coming from a guy who used to volunteer to drink Monty’s moonshine when we were seventeen,” Bellamy mumbles. 

“So did you, Bell,” Jasper sneers. “Also, your beard makes you look old.”  
  
“That’s it?”  
  
“Your forecheck sucks!”  
  
“Ah, yeah, that’s true,” Harper says, a hum of nods and agreements. Bellamy finishes his drink. 

“Is it weird that I feel left out?” Clarke asks. 

“Au contraire, don’t call me Doctor Griffin because that’s my mom,” Jasper says. “You have also made the list and—drum roll please.” Emori and Harper both oblige him, plastic straws on a bar top that desperately needs to be wiped down. “Definitely blushed over Bell’s hockey thighs and—wait for it, may actually unseat Harper for least coordinated on the ice tomorrow.”  
  
Murphy let out a low whistle, Clarke’s mouth falling open. “Wow. That was scathing.”  
  
“I know,” Jasper nods solemnly. “Tell me how personally insulted you are.”  
  
“Do you have a job, Jasper, or…”

Bellamy snickers, kissing exactly where his mouth lands. And pointedly ignoring the look most of his friend exchange. 

Jasper grins. “I live a very exciting and untethered life, Clarke.”

“He makes most of his money running his own odds and analytics site, is what he’s trying to say,” Monty explains. “Also, someone’s got to remember to call O during the anthem.”

“What is the anthem, exactly?” Clarke asks. 

“That’s actually a matter of debate.”

Bellamy and Murphy groan. “No, it’s not,” Bellamy mumbles. “You just think we should have more song choices.”  
  
Clarke’s eyebrows get almost hysterical low when she gapes at the lot of them. “Seriously, how does this work?”  
  
“This is fascinating,” Emori muses. “I feel like I should be recording it, don’t you?”  
  
“Honestly.”  
  
“Ok,” Harper sighs. “We’re going out of order. We’ve got to draft and then come up with rules and—”  
  
“—Does this hockey game not have set rules?” Emori cuts in, but Murphy just waves both his hands, like that will avoid any confusion.  
  
“We’ll get there, babe. Here.” He slams a coin onto the bar, more than a few glasses and battles shaking in the process. The regulars a few feet away grumble at them, although none of them seem all that surprised. 

It’s a very long-standing tradition. 

“Who wants the honor?” 

“Me,” Jasper responds immediately, grabbing the coin before anyone else can object. “I’m not a captain and Bellamy stole my skates.”

“Seriously, I’m going to give them back.”

“You want heads or tails?”  
  
“Heads.”

Jasper nods once, flipping the coin and catching it in mid-air, an impressive display of hand-eye coordination that none of them can trash. “The suspense is terrible. I hope it lasts.”  
  
“Oh God, it’s happening,” Harper sighs. Clarke can’t possibly see with eyes that narrow. Bellamy kisses the top of her hair that time. “This is the portion of the tradition where Jasper starts quoting things,” Harper explains. “He thinks he’s funny and—”  
  
“—I am funny, Harper,” Jasper cries. “And the first overall draft pick of the 2020 Arkadia Pond—”  
  
“—It’s a lake,” Bellamy corrects. 

“I hope you lose.”  
  
“Which we’ll only know if you tell us what the coin landed as,” Clarke says. Jasper grins. 

“It is…” He twists his wrist again, a second and wholly unnecessary flip that draws shouts and exclamations of _wrong_ , but then it’s heads and Bellamy’s won and he knows exactly who he’s going to pick. 

“Madi,” he says.

Monty jumps up, already throwing cocktail napkins that fall to the floor as soon as they leave his hands. And Bellamy barely notices it anyway, Clarke turning on him with that same lightness in her gaze that he’s starting to covet just a bit. 

Like it’s there for him. 

Or because of him. 

Semantics.  
  
He takes a deep breath. 

“God, that’s stupid,” she whispers. 

“It absolutely is.”

“Fine,” Monty snaps, kicking at Bellamy’s ankle now. “I pick Clarke.”

Bellamy clicks his tongue, and Clarke’s eyes are definitely changing color. In a flirting-type of maybe losing his mind isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to him kind of way. The best way, probably. “Yeah, I figured,” he says. 

“I’m going to wreck you at faceoffs,” Clarke announces, just enough threat in the words that Bellamy smiles wider and the group gasps collectively, mock surprise and possibly a little genuine surprise and—

“This is not air hockey, Princess.”  
  
“Thanks for pointing that out.”  
  
“I never asked, do you have skates?”  
  
“You stole your skates.”  
  
“Oh shit, now I want to be on Monty’s team,” Jasper mutters. “Clarke, you’ve got to hang out with us even after Bell leaves. I like you way more.”

She hums — but that does get the expression to shift, quick enough that Bellamy knows he’s the only one who notices. Probably because he’s looking for it. And he’d let himself ignore it all day, the deadline and the end and part of him rebels at even the idea. 

People have phones. 

Octavia is going to be so annoying about this.

“Bell, you’ve got to pick again,” Harper says. “And let’s not act like Monty's going to pick anyone except me and Jasper, so.”  
  
“I would have picked Emori next.”  
  
“Fuck off, Blake,” Murphy hisses. He refills his glass anyway, moving back towards the jukebox that, somehow, manages to get even louder. 

“We’re all going to go deaf,” Monty sighs. 

Bellamy shakes his head, moving almost subconsciously to the rhythm despite guarantees to Octavia and she is going to be so goddamn annoying about this. “I think that means your old.”

“Clarke wins more faceoffs than you. Five bucks now.”  
  
“Deal.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Bellamy extends his hand — having to reach around Clarke to do it, but there’s shaking and Jasper running odds without any sort of mathematical reasoning behind them and—

“Has that jukebox only been playing music from the 80s?” Clarke asks, hours and far too much trash talk later. 

They’ve moved away from the bar, the stools there far too wobbly for the amount of alcohol required to keep them trash talking at their current rate, but that also means Clarke’s curled against Bellamy’s side and dangerously close to actually sitting on his leg and he can’t really cope with that. 

He’s definitely kind of drunk. 

It might be hard to play a hockey game tomorrow. 

He might not win all of his faceoffs. 

He’s strangely alright with that. 

“Did you just notice that?” Bellamy mutters, pressing the words to Clarke’s temple.  
  
“Emori keeps giving me drinks.”  
  
“Strong, right?”  
  
“Why do I feel like I’m in a John Hughes movie?”  
  
“This is better than John Hughes,” Jasper yells, spinning around Harper in the few feet of open space near the jukebox. “We strictly do 80s Joel music, sir.”  
  
“I have no idea what that means.”  
  
“He’s quoting things again,” Bellamy says. “And this is the high point of the tradition. Because we used to do this at my mom’s house.”  
  
Jasper stops moving. 

And it’s almost as if someone’s put a pause on the moment — Bellamy feeling as if every person in the bar looks at him, but he knows his friends do and they know about the house and the records and he should tell Clarke that at some point. 

It feels important. 

“She had this huge record collection,” Bellamy says, “mostly 80s stuff, and we’d play it while we were drafting and trashing each other. Stuck through the years and Murphy’s apparently a giant sap who has a jukebox solely filled with 80s music.”

Murphy turns the music up. “Someone’s got to call O for the anthem.”  
  
“We’ve got to do everything though,” Jasper stresses. “Every part. Or the whole thing is pointless.”  
  
Clarke’s got her lip between her teeth, no nerves, just a questioning glance Bellamy’s direction when he flips his wrist. 

She takes it. 

And Octavia answers on the third ring, the phone far too close to her face and excitement obvious. “Bell, you better do it,” she says. 

He salutes. 

“Alright,” Murphy starts, finger hovering over one of the jukebox buttons. “Five, four, three, two—”

They all shout one, music blasting and it only takes Clarke a few beats to realize— 

“This is the song they played when you walked into the bar,” she says. 

Bellamy kisses her. Suddenly. Immediately. Some other adverb.

His mouth doesn’t catch Clarke’s, so much as it collides with it, all hungry moves and a little desperation, his tongue parting her lips while his fingers fly into her hair. There are more shouts and gasps, the telltale sounds of Octavia cursing, and Bellamy doesn’t stop. He tilts his head, lets his palm flatten against Clarke’s back while she fists the fabric of his shirt, so she can keep her balance. 

The moment doesn’t freeze this time. It lingers. Stretches. Takes up equal space in his consciousness and his soul, until Bellamy wonders if he’ll be able to memorize the way Clarke feels against him. 

They rock a little, nearly in rhythm, like they’re twisting around each other and his friends at least have the common decency to not bother them. For point six seconds. Because then there’s a hand on Bellamy’s shoulders, and instructions from Octavia and Bellamy huffs when he moves, one hand finding Clarke's so he can spin her. 

Her gasp becomes a laugh almost immediately, colliding with his chest when he pulls back. 

“Is your anthem Under Pressure?” she asks, far too breathless.

Bellamy nods. “It’s ironic.”  
  
“No, it’s not.”  
  
“No, it’s not,” Harper agrees. She’s dancing as well, Murphy’s phone in her hands now while Octavia bobs on the balls of her feet in her apartment. 

“Whatever,” he says, still not able to get enough tension or frustration into any of the letters. Not when Clarke’s head starts moving and her hips start swaying and every person in the bar does stare at them when they all sing along to the final Bowie verse. 

Entirely off key. 

And none of them leave, even after the Anthem ends — played three times in a row, which isn’t a tradition, really, but Octavia keeps shouting _again_ and none of them are very good at disagreeing with her — still swaying and moving and Bellamy’s fingers keep tracing the ridge of Clarke’s spine. 

He’s only dimly aware of the music switching, until Clarke gasps again and immediately starts humming along to the song from Dirty Dancing. So, Bellamy doesn’t really think. He dips her and twists her and she keeps laughing, the smile on her face making him even more hopeful and he wasn’t aware desperation could be fun until he wanted this so goddamn bad. 

He mouths the words with her. 

“Are you trying to Patrick Swayze me right now?”  
  
“I don’t know what that means.”  
  
“He does that,” Clarke says. “At the end. Sings along and—”  
  
"—Gets the girl?”  
  
“Jeez, not if you say it like that.”  
  
Bellamy laughs, another quick kiss and he’s only a little worried he’s actually going to burst into flames. “You want to get out of here?”  
  
“Yeah. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) where I am trying to write as much fluff as possible to combat real-world nonsense. But, for real, I hope everyone stays safe and stays healthy and hopefully this served as a good distraction for a few minutes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A before-the-chapter note because we earn our rating here. So, if that's not your jam, you might want to scroll down a little bit. To the even more emotional stuff. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're so inclined, where I'll probably keep talking about all the fic I'm writing to avoid doing real work. I hope you all are staying healthy <3 We'll get through this with fictional characters making out.

His feet keep sliding. 

The irony of it is, once again, not lost on Bellamy, but he also wouldn’t mind if irony would just...kindly fuck off for a few minutes. Possibly an entire hour. He doesn’t want to get too greedy. 

And yet. 

His feet slip and slide and there are already small hills of snow on the corner of every street they pass, barely anyone else outside. Because of the snow. And it’s Arkadia. As if the town itself is a reason. As if the town itself is impossibly aware that Bellamy Blake would like to make out with Clarke Griffin in the middle of the street. 

They’ll get there. 

Maybe if he can keep his balance. 

Or pick a direction to walk in. Neither one of them have actually offered anything, just quick glances that turn to half-smiles and lips tugged between teeth, and the lights around them make everything seem a little ethereal, a dim glow and unexpected shadows that, somehow, don’t feel all that threatening. Clarke’s fingers keep brushing over the back of his wrist. It leaves him a little breathless and a little nervous and even more excited, which isn’t ironic, although might be a little unexpected if only because he’s not sixteen and he’s not a kid and—

“Are you kind of drunk?” Clarke asks, just as breathless as he feels. Her fingers are still moving, skin soft against his, and that probably shouldn’t be another metaphor. 

His brain does not care. 

His brain makes sure he nods, both of them stilling in the middle of the goddamn street. It’s called Tide Street. Honestly, the naming conventions of every single road in Arkadia are consistently absurd. 

“A little,” Bellamy rasps. “But that’s not—” He inhales, only to let it out just as quickly, fingers twisting and wrist turning and Clarke squeezes his hand. Tightly. Determined-ly. That’s not a word. He kind of feels like he’s floating. 

“No?”  
  
“No.”   
  
Clark hums, tongue darting out to lick her lips and that’s as distracting as it’s been for the last week, and it’s only been a week, but it feels like an eternity and longer and easy, so goddamn easy that the realization leaves Bellamy a little weak in the knees, greedy and anxious and determined. 

That’s the right use of that word. 

“Strong drinks,” Clarke mutters, like that’s an explanation or maybe an excuse, and Bellamy doesn’t want it to be either. 

“If I say no again is that disappointing? You know, conversation-wise.”  
  
She smiles. 

He squeezes her hand, that time. 

“No,” Clarke echoes, and it’s almost too easy to step into her space, the toe of Bellamy’s shoe resting on hers. She lets her free arm find its way over his shoulder, fingers dancing up the back of his neck and brushing wayward snowflakes away from his skin. “I just—I like you.”  
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Look at you with the multiple words and well-structured conversation. Although now it’s starting to feel a little déjà vu.”   
  
He scoffs, nosing at the side of her cheek and the curve of her jaw and he’s only a little confident that the goosebumps he can see on her skin are because of him. They should get out of the middle of the street. 

They’re standing in the middle of the street. 

The whole thing is frustratingly and wonderfully cyclical. 

“Princess,” Bellamy mutters, low and far sharper than he originally intended. Until. Clarke’s breath hitches and her body shudders and he cannot possibly be expected to do anything except kiss her. 

Obviously. 

She laughs into his mouth, his fingers tangling in her hair and Bellamy refuses to be held accountable for whatever sound he makes as soon as Clarke’s hips shift against his. She keeps laughing. He keeps smiling. 

Maybe it’s not cyclical. 

Maybe it’s different. 

Maybe it can be.

“You keep laughing like this and ignoring my questions and I’m going to get some kind of complex,” Bellamy grumbles. 

“You’ll live.”  
  
“Will I just?”   
  
“Ten out of ten doctors would agree.”

“Oh my God, you’re making jokes and I’m trying to—”  
  
“—Make out?”   
  
“Something like that.”   
  
Clarke smiles. He can’t see it. They haven’t actually moved far enough apart that Bellamy can see her face, which is only a little disappointing because he’s pretty goddamn attracted to her face, but the shift of her lips against his cheek, and the soft scratch of her nails against the back of his head is more than enough to make up for it and settle any of the nerves lingering in the pit of his stomach and—

A car horn honks.   
  
“Get a room!”

“Seriously, I’m trying here,” Bellamy yells back, and that only ensures Clarke’s laugh turns into a giggle and a head buried in his shoulder and he has to move his arm to her waist when both of her knees buckle. 

Another honk. And snow crunching under tires that seem determined to move as slowly as possible. Bellamy is going to write a very strongly worded letter to Arkadia’s department of public works. 

Clarke doesn’t stop laughing, even when the car rolls by, more shouted words and promises that _you’re going to get yourself killed_ and—

“Who drives in this, then?” Bellamy argues. Her whole body is shaking now, the absurdity of all of this reaching—absurd levels. Clarke’s arms find their way around his middle, though, so Bellamy can’t really bring himself to be too upset about...anything. 

Even after the guy in the car flips him off. 

Bellamy groans. “Go home!”  
  
“You first,” car-guy screams, and the front of Bellamy’s jacket is going to rip. Clarke’s forehead is pressed so hard against the leather, the material twists under her, arms tight enough that it probably should be difficult to breathe. 

It’s not. 

Bellamy huffs, plenty of oxygen and near-comfortable lungs. He doesn’t want to be thinking about his lungs. He wants—

“C’mon,” Clarke says, tugging on the bottom of his jacket. “I bet we can still beat him back home even with his—'' She pauses, pushing up on Bellamy’s shoulder to call after the retreating tail lights. “—Piece of garbage, 2008 Nissan Altima!”  
  
“Are you trash talking the man’s car?”   
  
“Was that not obvious?”   
  
“You were just shouting facts at him.”

Clarke clicks her tongue, but she hasn’t moved yet either — every inch of her pressed against Bellamy’s chest while she stays balanced on her toes and that makes it very easy to kiss just under the jut of her chin. She gasps. 

“Whatever,” Clarke grumbles, Bellamy’s turn to laugh because he’s almost forgotten about the possible end game of this. That’s a horrible way of describing it. He needs to learn more words. Maybe if he’d gone to college. 

“You’re a very good trash talker,” Bellamy says.   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Were you just agreeing with that?”   
  
“Were you throwing out disingenuous compliments?” Clarke leans back, a smile and a glint in her eyes that’s obvious even in the street lights and without the car lights and Bellamy has every intention of saying something. Honestly. He’s got plans. Until. Part two. 

And the sequel is even better than the original. 

“I wasn’t only agreeing to the trash talk,” Clarke says, “although—maybe we’ll circle back to your sarcasm and your own pretty shitty trash talk later because—”  
  
“—That guy was going to run us over.”   
  
“I can only try and get you to come home with me so many times before it’s weird. And maybe a little aggressive. Same goes with telling you that I like you.”

Bellamy’s jaw drops. 

Also not part of the plan. 

And Clarke’s eyes widen when he stays ridiculously silent, tongue swiping the front of her teeth...until. A hat trick. 

He hadn’t noticed it before. Hadn’t heard the word for the word for it was or is or had been, and God, he hopes, could be. The tenses get confusing, but all Bellamy wants is indefinite, a future that stretches out with possibility and promise, a clean sheet of ice and he doesn’t realize he’s kissing her again until Clarke responds. 

Enthusiastically. 

And the logistics of it aren’t perfect. Probably because they still haven’t gotten out of the middle of the street. There are bumped noses and chins that tilt the wrong direction, roaming hands and more gasps as soon as fabric is shifted, skin suddenly prone to the very real snowstorm they’re also standing in. 

“The making out is really good,” Clarke breathes eventually, shared space and he can’t understand how she’s still so warm. Bellamy’s smile stretches the muscles in his face, his forehead resting on hers while he tries to stay tethered to the Earth. 

The floating thing gets stronger the more he kisses her. 

Gravity is starting to feel very overrated. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Ten out of ten—”  
  
“—Hockey players?”   
  
“Are you making out with a lot of other hockey players?”   
  
If he can keep making her laugh like that, Bellamy is sure nothing else will matter. 

“No,” Clarke says, but it sounds like a hell of a lot more than two letters and the same word they’ve been repeating. “I’m asking you to come home. With me. Like—right now.”  
  
“Felt obligated to specify the time, huh?”   
  
“Your trash talk is only marginally better than your ability to pick up on flirting.”

He makes a noise, a rumble in the back of his throat and that wasn’t really what he was trying to do either, but Clarke’s shoulders shift and the flush in her cheeks probably isn’t from the snow and—

Bellamy laces his fingers through hers. 

“Noted. We’ll take that into consideration during the next scouting combine.”  
  
“Jeez.”   
  
“You’re into this, I know it.”   
  
“That seems like a problem for me,” Clarke sighs, the ends of her mouth still tugged up, and she rolls her eyes when Bellamy winks. “And you’re very bad at that,” she adds. Her thumb taps at the back of his wrist, not quite a command, but maybe a little impatience and that puts them on even ground. 

Ice-covered ground. 

Bellamy’s always felt more comfortable on the ice than anywhere else. 

“Can we get out of the street now?” Clarke asks. “Maybe try making out—”  
  
“—Inside?”   
  
“I was going to say somewhere that didn’t include ice, but…”   
  
“Yeah,” Bellamy nods, more enthusiasm that isn’t quite unexpected. Away from the ice. Back home. He should tell her about the house at some point. “That sounds good to me.”

* * *

“Stop that.”  
  
“Stop what?”   
  
“You know what,” Bellamy mutters, and it isn’t easy to get the front door with so much snow already covering the steps. He kicks at the piles, Clarke’s fingers fluttering up the side of his arm and lingering on the bend of his elbow. 

She is admittedly much better at flirting than him. 

It’s distracting. 

It’s goddamn fucking fantastic. 

“I don’t,” Clarke promises as she uses him for leverage again, a smile flashed over her shoulder when she steps onto the front porch. 

“Liar, liar, liar.”  
  
She shakes her head, glancing back at the door while she tries to tug her keys out of her back pocket, but then Bellamy’s crowding against her, arms circling her waist and mouth dragging down the column of her neck—

Clarke drops her keys. 

“Oh, that is your fault,” she hisses, no real anger in the words. 

“You keep humming under your breath.”  
  
“Do I? Weird?”   
  
“You think you’re very funny.”

She makes a noise — part hum, part far-too-attractive confidence, and they’re never going to be able to find the keys. Especially when Bellamy spins her, Clarke’s back suddenly pressed against the front door of a house they’ve both called home at one point and seriously he’s got to tell her that. 

Maybe after the kissing. 

And the more-than-kissing. 

And the distinct lack of clothes. 

He’d really like there to be a distinct lack of clothes. 

Clarke’s hands fly to his cheeks when Bellamy kisses her, back arching like it’s the only reasonable reaction to the first swipe of his tongue and he spends about three seconds wholly preoccupied with that before he realizes that her fingers are also in his hair again and he can’t really cope with that. 

On, like, a fundamental level. 

As a human. 

“I know I’m very funny,” Clarke says, not bothering to move away from Bellamy’s mouth. “And I’m really just trying to prove my trash talk worth.”  
  
“By humming David Bowie songs?”   
  
“Technically it’s a Queen song, right? It was on their album.”   
  
“Weird flirting.”   
  
“I have no idea where my keys went. If you kicked them somewhere, I’m going to be really annoyed.”

“What do you think I’m capable of doing with my legs right now?”  
  
“Look who’s confident in their own humor.”   
  
Bellamy nods, lower lip pressed out slightly, but that’s just enough to make sure Clarke nips at it and—really, he’s not ever entirely sure what happens after that. He doesn’t kick the keys into a snowbank, at least has enough control over his legs to make sure of that, but the rest of his limbs seem to move of their own volition, a lock eventually clicking and a door opening only to close again just as quickly and Clarke’s gasp sounds like it echoes off the walls as soon as her head drops back. 

They’re all hands for a moment, gripping and grasping, pulling and yanking, clothes tossed without much thought to the direction. Her skin is just as soft everywhere Bellamy touches, a not-so-sudden desire to map the expanse of her back and the curve of her waist. 

He lets his fingers graze her hips, moving towards the top of her thigh and the button of her jeans and—

“God, you are a tease,” Clarke grumbles. 

Bellamy exhales, not sure when he’d started holding his breath, only that it flies out of him, all joy and excitement and something about magnets. Between them. Suggesting the magnets are in them is weird, so. 

“I’d really love for you to take your pants off.”  
  
Clarke’s nose brushes his cheek when she nods, and he can’t really feel her smile, but the memory of it bounces off every corner of Bellamy’s brain, like it’s trying to touch every inch, brand the memory there and linger for...the rest of everything. 

“Were you not going to take my pants off?” Clarke asks. It sounds a bit like a challenge. It’s also probably weird that he kind of wants it to be. 

Because there are several things that Bellamy has always been fairly confident about. His wrist shot. His forecheck. The strength of his right fist when he gets a good swing behind it. His mouth. In a variety of ways. 

None of those ways seem to matter anymore. 

Or, well—no, that’s not entirely true. 

They matter — if only because the way he tilts his head and presses his lips to Clarke’s ensures that one very specific noise he’s growing a little obsessed with — but everything else seems to take a metaphorical backset to how much he wants. And how confident he is in that. With everything in him and then some, wants this girl with her hair that smells like raspberries and defies the laws of light, with this town and its slippery streets and steps he’d like to shovel every time it snows. He wants this and how good they are at kissing each other. He wants the game and the goals and the admittedly awful trash talk. 

He wants to—

Bellamy takes a deep breath when he pulls away, Clarke’s gaze going dark with that same impatience from before because…”I really want to take your pants off,” he says. 

Something, something, _whatever_ , she smiles at him, bright and blinding and if Clarke is the sun, then Bellamy is only too happy to let himself rotate around her. 

For as long as she’ll let him. 

It goes again, after that, his hand cupping the back of her head when he pushes her against the door and he can barely hear her _god, what a gentleman_ over the ringing in his ears.

“We take concussion issues very seriously,” Bellamy drawls. He swears he can taste her laugh, but that might just be a product of looming insanity when Clarke’s tongue finds its way into his mouth and he’s got to press his palm flat to keep his balance. 

She laughs again, but he catches it — with his mouth, Clarke’s eyes fluttering shut and her hands moving faster than Bellamy can keep up with. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want to. He wants to let the moment rush over him, from every angle, drown in it so he can stay in it, Clarke’s leg hooking around the back of his. 

They rock against each other. 

Find a rhythm that’s almost too simple, a give and a take that’s another joke about water and maybe something else about gravity, and Bellamy is only aware that he’s moving backwards when he’s the one who crashes into a wall. 

Clarke is standing on her toes. 

So, he’ll probably think about that for awhile. 

“We should try and avoid leaving more holes in the wall, yeah?” Bellamy asks. His voice doesn’t even sound like his. He’s rushing over words and still a little out of breath, a crack that makes him feel a bit like a teenager again, and Clarke is still wearing pants.

“Ha, ha, ha.”  
  
“I’m starting to hate your pants a little.”   
  
“You and me both.”

Bellamy’s head drops again, finds Clarke’s shoulder and the crook of her neck and it’s not the smoothest thing he’s ever done, but the pants eventually get tossed somewhere else and his hand starts moving again and—

It is hyperbolic to suggest that everything freezes. 

That it’s anything except attraction and hormones and a week of buying coffee as some kind of obvious flirting device. 

And yet. 

Again. Indefinitely. There’s that word again. 

Bellamy’s hand moves, pushing aside fabric and rubbing out tiny circles, Clarke’s soft moan in his ear a metronome he’d like to time the rest of his goddamn life up to. She’s soft there too, standing on wobbly legs, the warmth of her intoxicating as soon as his finger dips inside her. 

She exhales. 

And he starts talking. 

There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Nothing except the first thoughts that come to him. A distinct lack of filter or anything that isn’t the complete and honest truth.

“Yeah, like that,” he mutters, half guarantee and half request. “Just like that, babe. Fuck—that’s...you feel so good.”

Clarke whines when his wrist twists, more pressure and his thumb moving, tilting her head up to try and get her lips on his again. Everything goes a little desperate after that, fingers moving and breath going ragged while the words continue to spill out of him, telling her over and over how much and how good she is, full stop, a promise Bellamy doesn’t intend to make, but one he means anyway and he does his best to press the letters into Clarke’s skin. 

Strictly speaking, he’s not much for believing in miracles, but Bellamy is certain he experiences one as soon as Clarke’s nails scratch across his back and he does not immediately burst into flames. He cants his hips up instead, looking for friction he knows he’s not going to find yet, and Clarke’s laugh shakes its way out of her, but the sound quickly becomes something else when he presses his thumb against her and—  
  
“God, I can’t think when you do that,” she whispers. 

“That’s exactly the point.”

She mouths against his jaw, gripping his shoulders like they’re the only things keeping her upright. Bellamy does his best not to let that go to his head. 

And he knows they have to move eventually, but that’s been some kind of theme for the last forty-two minutes and Clarke’s whole body goes tight when he pulls his hand away only to push back and it’s a few more seconds before she falls apart, head dropping to his chest. 

Bellamy kisses wherever his lips land, no pattern to it, just need and even more want. Clarke lets out another shaky sound, warm breath fanning out on his skin and he might be the one with goosebumps now. 

“We’ve got to move,” Clarke mumbles.

“Do we?”  
  
“I’m not sure how much longer I can stand up, honestly.”   
  
“Oh, that’s a compliment.”   
  
“Mmhm,” she nods, a feather-light kiss just below his collarbone. “It is.”

* * *

They fall onto the bed. 

It creaks in protest at their combined weight, Clarke muttering at that, but Bellamy keeps smiling and he’s not all that worried about the furniture or the state of the pillows on her floor when he realizes Clarke’s room is the guest room at the other end of the hall and—

“Hey,” she says softly, “you ok?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I be?”   
  
Clarke shrugs, twisting the blankets under her shoulder blades, and he’s got no idea when he moved on top of her, hardly any space between them, and his forearms flat on that same blanket. “You tell me. It was like—you got all distant for a second there. Still with me?”   
  
She can’t mean it the way Bellamy wants her to. 

But.

Some pesky, vaguely hopeful corner of his mind — possibly the spot that now holds the very precise sound of Clarke’s laugh and the way her brows pinched together downstairs — lights up at the question, at the more metaphorical weight behind the words, and he lets himself want again. Lets himself hope, even. 

“Yeah,” Bellamy whispers. “Still here.”

She smiles. “Good. Top drawer.”

He fumbles with the handle, hints of that teenager and the guy who never really grew out of the worry, of the desire to be enough and prove enough and do enough and Clarke’s fingers don’t leave him, trailing over Bellamy’s back and circling towards his rib cage. 

“Stop that,” he chides, “it tickles.”  
  
“Does it? Weird.”   
  
“You’re a menace.”   
  
“You should kiss me some more.”   
  
He’s going to have to find a whole new corner of his memory to hold onto the exact sound of her voice in that exact moment. 

Bellamy licks his lips — dry from breathing out his mouth, and there’s really no dignified way to put a condom on, but he does his best anyway, Clarke’s tongue finding the inside of his cheek while she watches him. 

And it’s not the same rhythm they’d found downstairs, the heat that curls in the pit of Bellamy’s stomach and wraps around the curve of his spine less like an inferno and more like a low flame, stretching across the space between them until there isn’t any space between them. 

His mouth starts running again, endearments and encouragements and her shoulders roll when he mouths _babe_ against the side of her neck again, but it’s nothing to how her back arches as soon as he calls her princess and this whole night is going to seriously mess with his ego. 

It’s over before Bellamy would like it to be, a shudder running through him when he feels Clarke’s body tense again, but it’s also good and great and neither one of those are appropriate adjectives. 

Especially when Clarke curses. 

He kisses her. Soft. Slow. Like he’d be perfectly content to stay right where he is. 

Indefinitely. 

“I should, uh—” Bellamy starts, the rest of the sentence getting caught in his throat at the look on Clarke’s face. She bites her lip. “I mean, I—I don’t…”  
  
“No, you don’t.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“Not if you don’t want to.”   
  
“I don’t want to.”   
  
She tilts her head up, another quick kiss that’s over almost as soon as it begins. That’s probably for the best. He can only be expected to balance his weight like this for so long. “Good,” Clarke says, like that’s that and, well—it is. 

She falls asleep before he does, legs tangled with his, and Bellamy takes a deep breath, raspberries and his own brand of certainty, like something has finally settled in the very center of him and it’s not hard to close his eyes after that. 

To stay. 

* * *

There’s light peeking through the curtains. 

Bellamy finds this offensive. He squeezes his eyes, like that will do anything to stop the sun’s ability to rise or his need to actually get clothes from Indra’s cabin and he’s not really sure he’s actually got clothes he can wear to play hockey in. He stops worrying about that when Clarke stirs, burrowing further into the pillow under her head and twisting her legs. 

She kicks him. 

Hard. 

“Shit,” Bellamy hisses, trying to keep his voice quiet. Clarke’s eyelids flutter anyway, the pinch between her brows returning, like she’s a little confused or maybe a little surprised and—

“Oh,” she says. “You’re still here.”  
  
“Is that bad?”   
  
He steels himself for the answer — tries to think of all the reasons it’s the reasonable and maybe rational sentiment, but both of those things fail pretty spectacularly and Clarke’s mouth twitches. That proves a pretty good distraction to Bellamy’s admittedly depressing train of thought. “What a dumb thing to ask,” Clarke says.   
  
“Wow, so we jumped right back to scathing insults, huh?”   
  
“I’m not much fun in the morning pre-coffee.”   
  
“Eh,” Bellamy objects, rolling onto his back and taking Clarke with him. Her head finds his chest, an arm splayed across his stomach and her knee must be made of lead. “Although,” he adds, “if you could cool it with the flailing limbs, that’d be great.”

“Did I kick you?”  
  
“Several times, yes.”   
  
She grits her teeth — color creeping into her cheeks, which is also pretty goddamn distracting in a good sort of way. Bellamy will blame that for the next question he asks. “Why did you know about that guy’s car?”   
  
“I’m sorry, what?”   
  
“The car. The trash talk last night, I—well, I was wondering.”   
  
“That’s what you were wondering about?”   
  
“I got a lot of answers to a variety of other questions,” he reasons. “So. Y’know, plenty of open space for new ones.”   
  
The blush...explodes, which probably isn’t the right word again, but Bellamy hasn’t had any coffee either and he is genuinely interested. “That shouldn’t work as well as it did,” Clarke grumbles, nosing at Bellamy’s skin. He’s got no idea where his shirt is. “And, uh—I don’t know, it’s depressing. There’s no room for depressing in the afterglow.”   
  
“Are we still glowing?”   
  
“Rude.”

“Why, Clarke?”  
  
“I bet you could figure it out. I mean—I told you that my dad listened to all that classic rock too, so—”   
  
“—No you didn’t."  
  
“What?”   
  
“No you didn’t,” Bellamy repeats. “When did you say that?”   
  
Clarke’s head snaps up, finding her hand so she can glare at him, which might detract from the maybe still-active afterglow, but it’s also pretty attractive, so. Whatever. “Yes, I did,” she cries, “You said that the music you listened to pre-game was a product of childhood and what your mom listened to and I said I got that.”   
  
“Huh.”   
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
Bellamy grins, ignoring the objection from his spine when he twists towards her, if only so he can nose at the side of her arm and towards the inside of her wrist, sure he can’t actually hear her pulse the way he would like to. “Ok, ok, so let me get this straight—you were also force-fed music and that led to knowledge of cars?”   
  
“My dad...fixed things. Built things. Had a space in Brooklyn and—”   
  
“—Jesus, you were seriously rich.”   
  
“You’re ruining this.”   
  
“By your leave, Princess.”

Clarke’s eyes flash again, but it’s more heat than frustration and he catches her around the wrist when she tries to stab him in the chest “Athlete,” she sneers.  
  
“We’ve really got to work on your trash talk. Using facts is not insulting.”

“Stupid athlete.”  
  
“A work in progress,” Bellamy chuckles. “Where in Brooklyn?”   
  
“Navy Yard. There’s all those old warehouses and stuff over there. Chop shops and—ok,” she amends quickly, presumably at the look on Bellamy’s face, “that’s not the right phrase at all. My dad wasn’t building cars out of illegal parts.”   
  
“Just using the space?”   
  
“Money talks and all that.”

“I guess so. Did you go with him a lot? To these not chop-shops, chop shops?”  
  
“Say that ten times fast,” Clarke challenges. Bellamy widens his eyes. “And, yeah, a lot when I was a kid. He said it used to clear his head. He worked, uh—engineering, energy stuff, lots of pressure, renewable sources, all that. Working with broken things, playing all that music very loud, helped him destress, I guess.”  
  
“Did it for you?”  
  
“I was, like...ten.”  
  
“Yes or no answer.”  
  
Clarke hums, not looking up and that’s not bad, per se, but it also feels like a big question all of the sudden and—her eyes find Bellamy’s. Something about those magnets again. “Yeah,” she admits. “It did. I wasn’t ever really big on the cars, but I liked hanging out with my dad and—” She swallows, licking her lips. “—I haven’t been back there since he…”

Bellamy’s feet hang off the edge of the bed when he slides down. He does it anyway, pulls Clarke into his arms and kisses the top of her hair, the side of her head, her temple, anywhere he can reach, holding onto her like that will help keep all the vaguely broken pieces together.

Of both of them. 

“See,” Clarke mumbles, “depressing.”  
  
“No, it’s not.”

She makes an unimpressed noise, a sharp inhale and fluttering fingers that feel like they’re doing their own bit of mapping. Bellamy doesn’t move. Has no need to. Not when he’s exactly where he wants to be and he’s seriously got to learn new words, but then Clarke’s hand shifts and lands—

Directly on top of the knotted skin near his hip. 

“What happened?” she asks, soft enough that he can hardly hear her. It’s getting sunnier out. He hopes it stopped snowing. 

“Blocked a shot.”  
  
“Shit. That is—”   
  
“—Part of the game.”   
  
“Liar,” Clarke challenges. “How do you get a scar like that from blocking a shot?”   
  
“Slap shots are hard, you know.” She doesn’t flinch at Bellamy’s sarcasm or attempted deflection, and fair’s only fair, he supposes. He clicks his teeth, kisses her hair once more like that will help. “It really was a hard shot. So, I got hit and it hurt like hell and I didn't even really think about it for awhile.”   
  
“Until?”   
  
“Until the bruising didn’t go away and it kept hurting like hell when I skated and there was kind of a...bone shard? That broke off?”   
  
“God, why are you phrasing it like a question?”   
  
“I was never really sure how it happened,” Bellamy reasons. “Or how I didn’t realize it happened. That’s insane, right?”   
  
Clarke blinks. She stares. He waits. And keeps breathing. He can do that here. With her. 

“A little,” she smiles. “So, uh—surgery, then? How was that not in my Google’ing?”  
  
“It wasn’t widely reported. Just generic lower-body and we didn’t make the playoffs last year, so no one cares what happens to some third-line goon during the off-season.”   
  
“That’s not true.”   
  
“Liar,” Bellamy echoes. 

“Stop that,” Clarke snaps, and he doesn’t entirely expect that. It’s definitely getting brighter in that room. “That—God, the self-sacrificing bullshit.”

“You weren’t kidding about the no coffee thing, were you?”  
  
“I’m serious, Bell. I just—” Her thumb lingers on the scar and there are plenty more, bumps and bruises and that one she’s already hit, but this feels different and Bellamy nods. There wasn’t really a question. “You shouldn’t have to keep blocking shots like that. First-unit power play and first-line wing and—it’s...I’m really glad you stayed.”   
  
He doesn’t need to find more words. 

The words, it seems, have found him. 

And Clarke almost looks nervous at the response she’s going to get, but then Bellamy’s surging up and she’s ducking down and her mouth finds every single one of those bruises. Literal and metaphorical. 

* * *

He offers to make coffee. 

His jeans are outside the bedroom door. 

* * *

Bellamy nearly falls over. 

He chokes on his own tongue, stopping short and quickly enough that most of the muscles in his left thigh almost audibly rise up in revolt, gulping down air like that will make Madi’s eyes return to their correct size. 

Her mouth drops, a noise that can’t possibly be good for a twelve-year-old to make, and Bellamy honestly does not know what to do. He can’t move. He’s frozen. Stuck. Standing there, while Madi’s brain catches up to what that means and it takes, by his admittedly shaky count, fourteen and a half seconds for her jaw to snap close. 

She tugs her lips behind her teeth, an appraising shift to her eyebrows and far too much maturity and—

“Your shirt is in the hallway.”  
  
Bellamy clicks his tongue. “Yeah?”   
  
“I wouldn’t make that up.”   
  
“No, I wouldn’t think you would. And, I uh—aren’t you supposed to be doing some team thing? That isn’t here. Shit, are there other kids here?”   
  
“In my house?”   
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
Madi snorts, and her eyes are still as wide as ever, but Bellamy’s fight or flight instincts are nowhere to be found, so he figures it’s all a wash. “So,” she says, stretching the word out, “you’re here, huh?”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And what?”   
  
“And does Clarke know you live here?”   
  
He’s never going to be able to skate later. His spine feels like it realigns when he stands up straighter, shoulders rolling back and head at an angle, knees locking because Madi can’t possibly know that and if Monty told her, Bellamy’s going to punch something. Or someone.

Probably someone.   
  
“No one told me,” Madi adds lightly, although it’s obvious she’s being careful to keep her voice soft. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”   
  
“I kind of was.”   
  
“Yeah, you do this thing with your face.”   
  
“Yuh huh,” Bellamy repeats, not entirely trusting himself to say anything else. He’d like to sit down. When he was a kid, he used to jump on the counter, let his legs swing out while his mom made dinner and she’d always try to get him to come down, but he’d argue and pout and she’d let him stay up there. 

The entire time she was in the kitchen. 

“Do you not want to know how I know?” Madi presses. “Because I’ve known the whole time. I mean—well, as soon as you came here for the game. It was just a guess before and—”  
  
“—Wait, what?”   
  
“I didn’t really know for sure before.”   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
Madi’s eyes, somehow, get even wider — an unspoken _obviously_ that Bellamy tries not to be too offended by. She jumps onto the counter. 

He briefly considers just sitting on the kitchen floor. 

It’s the same tile it was when he was a kid.

“I knew you were from Arkadia,” Madi explains. “It’s all anyone talks about here, especially at the rink. I mean—there are pictures of you there. You signed them! You’re kind of famous.”  
  
“Kind of. So how’d we go from that to educated guesses on the past owners of your house?”   
  
“How many people have lived here?”   
  
“Enough,” Bellamy says. “That’s not an answer, kid.”

Madi sticks her tongue out. “We moved in here way before the season started and I wasn’t—well, I didn’t want to move here. It’s so far away from New York and we’d have to watch Caps games and—”  
  
“—The Caps aren’t bad.”

She glares at the interruption, Bellamy crossing his arms so he doesn’t do something stupid like jump onto the counter next to her. “I didn’t want to be here. But Clarke said the house was big and it’d be a house, which—I mean I never had that in New York. Even when Clarke found me. We lived in an apartment and my room wasn’t that big. I got to pick my room here.”  
  
“Yeah? Which room is it?”   
  
“Second door on the left upstairs.”

He should have sat down. Somewhere. Anywhere. 

Bellamy isn’t sure how he manages not to fall over — realization rushing over him and crashing into him and—“That’s my sister’s room,” he mutters.

“Yeah, I figured that out eventually.”  
  
“How?”

Madi slides back onto the floor, crossing the kitchen in five steps so her hand can find Bellamy’s. “C’mon,” she says, “it’s easier if you see it.”

They march upstairs, hardly pausing long enough to grab Bellamy’s shirt which is only vaguely ridiculous, and he doesn’t count steps or seconds, but he may keep track of inhales if only so he’s certain he maintains consciousness. It doesn’t look entirely the same. There are different posters on the walls, a desk in the corner and what, at first glance, look like drawings tacked to that section of wall, but there are also half a dozen sticks propped up in the corner and even more pucks strewn across the floor. 

He exhales. 

And smiles. 

Madi tugs on his hand again. 

“Here,” Madi announces, plowing into the room with a specific kind of authority that only comes from comfort and home. She yanks open the top drawer of the desk, a small pile of papers folded inside, and Bellamy isn’t sure if he’s nervous or excited or a little worried about what Octavia did. They all seem like fairly reasonable reactions, honestly. 

The seconds tick by as Madi flips through the papers before she spins on the spot, holding her arm out with another round of unspoken words. 

Bellamy’s fingers shake slightly when he takes it. 

And it’s not what he expects. 

He’s not sure what he expects, but it sure as hell isn’t a list, Octavia’s handwriting obvious as soon as his eyes drop to the paper. It’s not long — four bullet points, but Bellamy knows it’s about him as soon as he reads the first one: 

_Get him back on the ice._

_Start looking for the open shot again._

_Start taking the open shot again._

_Get back to winning._

“I don’t—” Bellamy starts, but he has to take a breath before he can continue, his grip on the paper tight enough to rip it. “Where did you find this?”  
  
Madi squeezes one eye closed.   
  
And he understands. 

“Oh, the loose floorboard in the closet.”

“Clarke told me to pick my own room,” Madi says, like she’s got to come up with an excuse for poking through her own closet. “And so—I did. This one...I liked the window.”  
  
“So did O.”   
  
“And I wasn’t looking for anything, I mean—I was hanging up my clothes, but I almost tripped over it and, I uh—there are letters in there.”   
  
Bellamy furrows his eyebrows, confusion rippling through him until—he understands. Again. “Those are still there?”

Madi nods, Bellamy nearly sprinting back across the room towards the closet and the floorboard and the letters he and Octavia carved themselves, their initials on the wall in the back corner, a few hours after Aurora Blake was buried in Arkadia Memorial Cemetery. 

He crouches down, reaching a blind hand out, but it doesn’t matter. They’re in the same place, a little more jagged than he remembered, but there. Still. Always. Indefinitely. His fingers trace the marks, tiny circles and every emotion he can still feel with almost startling clarity. 

Madi doesn’t blink when Bellamy glances over his shoulder — he hadn’t expected her to, this kid who knows far too much and understands even more and his knee cracks when he stands back up. And he doesn’t flinch when she slams into him, arms tight around his middle and a soft catch in her breath that Bellamy understands as well. 

He blinks more than once. 

Octavia would totally know if he cried in her room. 

“How’d you figure out that the letters were us, though?” Bellamy asks. 

Madi shrugs. “I didn’t at first. But then Clarke found out there was hockey here and she got me on the team—made sure they’d let me try out and Monty started talking and I knew who you were in New York. I saw the picture and it...I thought it made sense. And then I found the floorboard and—”  
  
“—O used to hide all her stuff under there. Things she didn’t want me or my mom to find ever. She, uh—I would have thought she took everything with her when we left.”   
  
“There wasn’t a lot in there. A puck, a butterfly clip and the letter. I still don’t really get that part, but it says he and I figured that had to be you.”   
  
“Seriously,” Bellamy says, voice suddenly tight, “you’re a genius.”   
  
And he doesn’t say anything else, can’t really — because he can’t quite wrap his mind around it, that Octavia wrote that or left it here or how she even got it under the floorboard without him noticing. He’ll have to thank her for that. 

Maybe after he cries in her childhood bedroom. 

And goes back to the bed he left. 

“So,” Madi whispers, “I was right, then? This was your house?”  
  
“For a long time, yeah.”   
  
She nods slowly, like she’s trying to piece together the last few bits of a puzzle. “And you’re home now? I—I know you’ve got to go back for the season, but—”

The sentence ends abruptly, a jarring difference from how Madi had rushed over the words before, and Bellamy’s stomach flips into his throat at the same time his heart expands, the question within the question practically landing at his feet. 

“I don’t know, Madi,” Bellamy answers. “Maybe? I’d like—”  
  
“—Bell, what are you—” Clarke starts, stopping in the open doorway to find him standing there with her kid and the paper in his hand and he didn’t even start the coffee. Top-tier boyfriend material. God, he’s an idiot. “Madi,” Clarke says, “I didn’t think you’d be here so early. It’s—it’s early isn’t it?”   
  
“I have no idea what time it is,” Bellamy admits.

“It’s almost eight,” Madi mutters, “and I came back here because I need to get my skates and Clarke are you seriously going to play today?”

He can’t possibly continue to turn at his current rate. Bellamy arches and eyebrow when Clarke doesn’t answer immediately, her arms crossed and one shoulder resting against the door frame. She nods. “My team is going to absolutely destroy yours. How was that for trash talk?”  
  
“Was that trash talk?”   
  
“It’s not great if you have to double check, Princess,” Bellamy points out, untangling himself from Madi and he kisses the pinch between Clarke’s brows. “I did promise coffee, right?”   
  
“Something like that.”   
  
“Diner breakfast? On me.”   
  
“Are you trying to lull me into a false sense of pregame security?”   
  
“And I want home fries.”   
  
Madi laughs — any sense of nerves forgotten as she starts talking a mile a minute again, a bit more trash talk and game plans and Clarke’s fingers curl into the front of Bellamy’s shirt like it’s a domestic habit she’s started to form. He hopes so. 

He hopes, full stop. 

* * *

Bellamy times Clarke when she tapes Madi’s stick. 

“Forty-two seconds,” he says from the corner of the couch. She groans. “We’ll get there, we’ll get there.”

She throws the tape at him. 

* * *

Indra lets Clarke borrow skates. 

And Bellamy doesn’t bother asking if he can keep using Jasper’s — he’s never going to give them back. They’re the last ones to the ice, Madi dragging her equipment bag behind her while Bellamy rests her stick on his shoulder, his left hand tangled up with Clarke’s. 

“Is this perpetual tardiness something we can all continue to expect from you, Bell?” Monty yells. He’s stick-handling in the middle of the lake, Harper slashing at his ankles while Jasper does circles around them. 

There are no boards, just a few plastic folding chairs, Emori on Murphy’s stretched out legs, with a thermos of what Bellamy can only imagine is a warm alcoholic beverage in her hand. “Look at him,” Murphy chuckles. “The great NHL star, descended on high with his stick like that.”  
  
“It’s not my stick,” Bellamy argues.

Emori freezes, the thermos halfway to her mouth, which is another vaguely ridiculous thing, but that’s become par for the course. It’s another inappropriate golf pun. 

“Oh,” Murphy says, “right, right, right, were you going to play with your hands then, or…”  
  
“Hand pass,” Jasper cries. “Against the rules!”   
  
Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Do you guys not have extra sticks?”   
  
“Obviously we have extra sticks,” Monty says. “We are so prepared for this, it’s not even funny. Who do you think brought the chairs?”   
  
“Someone who raided their parents camping gear when they were twenty-four?”   
  
“Wow, scathing.”   
  
“You’re going to have to work on that, Bell,” Harper adds, pushing off Monty so she can send ice his direction. “So what are you going to give us for the stick?”   
  
“Excuse me?”

“Does Clarke, don’t call me Doctor, have skates?”  
  
“Yeah, obviously.”   
  
“And you didn’t want to steal some sticks when you stole the skates?”   
  
“Ok,” Bellamy sighs. “We didn’t steal anything. Indra was already pissed enough we woke her up—”   
  
“—Oh my God,” Monty laughs, “why would you do that?”   
  
“She needed skates!” Jasper nods solemnly, joining their small cluster at the edge of the lake. His skates aren’t tied and his tape job is barely that, wearing ski goggles instead of a helmet. “You look insane,” Bellamy says, “why are you wearing that?”   
  
“This is my competitive edge, Bell. I make you think about my outfit choices and then you lose faceoffs to your girlfriend.”   
  
“Right.”

“This is genius.”  
  
“Sure.”   
  
“You are ruining this!”   
  
“You going to give me a stick?” Bellamy asks. “Do I have to fight someone?”   
  
Murphy clicks his tongue. “You want to control those violent tendencies for one game, huh? We’ve got a kid to impress here.”   
  
Madi stands up to her full height at being half-addressed, meeting Murphy’s gaze without a hint of athletic-based worry or anything except athletic-based confidence. She probably doesn’t want to bounce the puck on her stick. 

Bellamy only kind of does. 

If someone would give him a stick.

“If you turn the puck over today, I’ll drop gloves with you,” Madi announces. Bellamy chokes. Clarke sputters. Jasper cackles. 

Murphy grins. “Yeah, that’s fair. You bring gloves though or are we speaking in the abstract? Also I play goal in these games, so...you might want to come up with a slightly different approach on the insults.”  
  
“God,” Bellamy groans, ducking down so he can grab a handful of snow. And lob it directly at Murphy’s head. “What was that about tendencies? Control yours. And seriously don’t turn the puck over in the neutral zone.”

“And,” Harper adds, “Bell, if you want the stick, then you’ve got to bring out the accoutrements for today’s dazzling rivalry matchup.”  
  
“Hockey night in Canada,” Jasper shouts, a stick tap to the back of Bellamy’s calves. He rolls his eyes again.   
  
“You realize we’re playing on a lake, right?” Clarke asks. “And none of you are making sense.”

“There are rules here,” Bellamy says.  
  
“That so?”   
  
“This is serious. Pride is on the line. And my point streak. Also, Mad—let’s try not to trash talk our own players if we can help it.”

Madi shrugs. 

Clarke’s lips twitch. “You have a point streak?”  
  
“I have scored in every one of these games that we have ever played. So, I have no intention of that ending now.”   
  
“Lead on fearless leader,” Murphy grins, Bellamy doing his best to flip him off without Madi noticing. He’s not sure it works. 

And they do go over the rules — Clarke’s eyes narrowing when Monty tries to explain the questionable offsides they’ve developed over the last twenty years, Bellamy and Murphy dragging make-shift goals that are only a little worse for wear onto the ice. 

There are no uniforms. 

There are no lines. No faceoff circles. The lake is in a public park, after all. 

There are no refs. No fans. Just the frozen lake and the sticks and them. Collectively. 

Bellamy lines up in front of Clarke at so-called center ice, Harper standing between them because there’s no ref, but someone’s got to drop the puck and—

“Trash talk, trash talk, trash talk,” Clarke chants. “This is trash talk, you are listening to trash talk from me.”

He wins the faceoff. 

Bellamy winks when Clarke gasps, a quick twist of his wrists and pass back towards Madi and he’s very thankful for the lack of helmets, making it all too easy to kiss her cheek when he skates past her. “Game on, Princess.”


	7. Chapter 7

“No, no, no, that is cheating!"  
  
“I am stick handling,” Bellamy argues, keeping the puck moving and his wrists twisting and he can just barely hear Madi’s laugh from a few feet away. 

Jasper growls. “You can’t just rush me in the crease, Bell! That is against the rules! Goalie interference or whatever!”  
  
“Adding whatever to the end is not helping your cause,” Harper mumbles. “Stopping on a dime like that was pretty cool though, Bell.”  
  
“What the hell is that, why are we complimenting the enemy?” Monty objects loudly, skating forward and not bothering to stop before he slams into Bellamy’s back. He grunts, air rushing out of his lungs, but his hands keep moving and he’s only kind of doing it to impress Clarke. 

Who — if the look on her face is any indication — is doing her best not to smile. 

“Seriously, are we not going to follow the trash talk rules?” Murphy yells. He hasn’t gotten out of his net yet, and they’ve only been playing for ten minutes, but Bellamy’s already scored once, _maybe_ twice, because Jasper’s already shouted _goalie interference_ sixteen times, like that’s something anyone understands or wants to acknowledge and—  
  
“I did not interfere with you,” Bellamy says, shifting his weight so he can rest his chin on the top of his stick. Clarke’s lips shift again. 

He might be more focused on that than anything else. 

Jasper sneers, the speed of his head shake threatening to make his goggles fall down his face. “No, no, you cannot come in here with your stick—”  
  
“—How else would you like me to score on you?”  
  
“You were in the crease!”  
  
“Jasper there is no crease,” Emori points out, all reason and calm and neither one of those things have a place in the Weeks Lake game. “Also, maybe you’re just a bad goalie.”  
  
“God, we all suck at trash talk,” Monty grumbles. Madi grabs the puck from Bellamy, leaning forward quickly enough that he barely realizes she’s moved at all, and that gets a few hums of approval from the peanut gallery, even as Jasper starts arguing again. 

“I was unable to make the save,” he cries. “That is the literal definition of goalie interference. Blake cross-checked me—”  
  
“—Oh my God, now you’re just pulling words out thin air,” Bellamy shouts. “My stick didn’t leave the ground. How could I have cross checked you?”  
  
“There was intent.”  
  
  
“You’re insane.”  
  
“Cross check, two minutes!”  
  
“Do you guys have enough people to call penalties?” Clarke asks, and Bellamy doesn’t think he imagines her inching closer to him. 

“No,” Bellamy replies at the same time Monty says, “Eh.”  
  
Bellamy can’t wave his hands the way he’d like to without dropping his stick — and he’s pretty positive some of the color on Clarke’s cheeks is because of the way he’s resting on his stick, so. He’s got priorities. “We’re not playing three on two,” he announces. “That’s—”  
  
“—Probably the only way they can win,” Murphy finishes. He’s passing the puck back and forth with Madi, not much finesse to it because most of his goalie equipment is...not goalie equipment. The chest protector he’s wearing looks a little bit like it belongs on a baseball diamond. “Let’s be honest, though, Jasper you’re a piece of—” He pauses, passing back to Madi like he’s remembering she’s a kid. “—Garbage goalie and, you know, the kid might be as good at scoring as Bell, so—”  
  
Murphy shrugs, Madi spinning on the spot. 

The ice is already half cut up by their skates. 

Bellamy grins. And glances at Clarke. The blush definitely can’t all be because of the cold. 

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Harper agrees, both Monty and Jasper gaping at her. “Jasper made cracks about my skating ability last night and—”  
  
“—Dissension in the ranks,” Bellamy interrupts. Harper swats at his ankles. He hisses, gritting his teeth and stumbling backwards, not much padding on the inside of Jasper’s ancient skates. 

“Madi is ten-thousand times better than you were when you were twelve, Bell. Untapped upside. Sky’s the limit. What’s another good cliché?”  
  
“Are you going to slash me again if I don’t come up with something?”  
  
“Oh, c’mon, that was not a slash!”  
  
“Maybe you all need to relearn how hockey is played,” Clarke says. She’s definitely getting closer. Or maybe Bellamy was. 

It doesn’t really matter either way — only that his arm finds its way around her shoulders and hers circle his middle and there’s somehow a stick poking into his left ribs that is oddly and surprisingly comfortable. 

Monty glances at Murphy. 

Bellamy’s going to have to steal their phones later. 

Or just ignore his. 

The eventual text messages from Octavia will be detailed and opinionated, he’s sure. 

“It’s a totally different game on the lake,” Monty explains, like that’s a reasonable thing to say. “And as acting commissioner of the lake game, I—”  
  
There’s a general uproar from the lot of them — sticks thrown and the puck shot at Monty’s left skate, exclamations and enough curses that they’ve probably scarred Madi for life, Monty's lip all but disappearing when he purses them in frustration.

“Did I miss the vote on that?” Bellamy asks. “Did you just appoint yourself commissioner?”

“We’ve never voted on that,” Murphy says. “This is insane.”  
  
Clarke scoffs, head burrowing into Bellamy’s chest. “Yeah, that’s what insane about all of this. Hey, how’s my tape job holding up on Madi’s stick?”  
  
“I can’t compliment you right now, babe,” Bellamy mutters, another sharp jump of Monty’s eyebrows. “I’m way too busy staring intimidatingly at Green.”  
  
“That’s not a word,” Harper objects.

“You look embarrassed by your boyfriend, McIntyre. Is that because he’s gone power mad or because you guys all know I’m better than you even when I can’t feel my feet?”  
  
“How tight did you lace your skates?”  
  
“Distracted this morning, were you?” Jasper adds knowingly. Murphy shoots at him. And Emori definitely mumbles something that sounds like _oh my God_ under her breath. 

“Two minutes, Blake,” Monty yells. “For…”  
  
“Can’t come up with anything, can you?”  
  
“God, you’re so annoying!”  
  
“Honestly,” Emori grins, “I really had much higher expectations for everyone’s trash talk in this game. So, are we winning by two or—”  
  
Jasper throws his whole head back when he groans, twisting awkwardly in front of the net and it only looks a little insane until Bellamy realizes what he’s doing. “There,” Jasper says, pointing an emphatic hand at the semi-circle he’s drawn with his skate blades. “This is my crease. If Blake comes in here and destroys me again—”  
  
“—I think that’s really more of a commentary on you,” Bellamy objects.  
  
“Two minutes!”  
  
Bellamy chuckles, head resting on the side of Clarke’s hair. “Fine, fine,” he says. “But I’d like it noted for the commissioner's report, as it were, that I’m so much better than all of you, that you had to start inventing penalties to get me off the ice.”  
  
Jasper gags. Monty curses. Emori and Harper laugh. 

And Clarke pushes off Bellamy’s side, which is only a little disappointing for a moment, but then she’s tilting her head up and her lips are twisted and maybe he’s the one who’s going a little crazy while watching her on the ice. 

“Professional hockey player,” she says, enunciating every single letter. 

He moves pretty quickly after that. 

It gets him more obnoxious responses from his friends — but all of this has been...fun, and good and fun again. Just for emphasis. So, Bellamy kisses Clarke in the middle of Weeks Lake while both Monty and Jasper are trying to push him towards a folding chair and makeshift penalty box and she nips at his lower lip.  
  
“I’m going to score on the power play,” Clarke says lightly. His heart jumps in his chest. 

“Sure, sure, sure, and how, exactly, would you know how to do that?”  
  
She laughs — enough joy in the sound that any desire to trash talk practically evaporates, pushing lightly on Bellamy’s chest, which is really the only reason he does, eventually, move. “Get off the ice, Blake.”  
  
Bellamy salutes, glancing Madi’s direction. “You’re faster than any of them. Better than all of them combined—”  
  
“—Seriously, come on,” Monty and Jasper whine. Bellamy ignores them. 

Madi nods once. “Short-handed. Let’s go.”

“Let’s go,” Murphy echoes, but the words come out like some kind of weird rallying cry and they make Bellamy drop the puck before he retreats back to the folding chair. 

Where he counts seconds. 

Because it doesn’t take that long. 

He gets to seventy-two before Madi’s stick bumps Harper’s, a turnover in the neutral zone that has Murphy yelling and Bellamy leaping to his feet and Emori might actually freeze so she can watch everything play out. 

Madi streaks up the ice with enough ease that Bellamy is briefly worried his whole face is going to freeze in surprise. It’s very cold out. And Clarke doesn’t bother trying to defend, standing on the other side of the lake with an open mouth and dropped shoulders because—

Monty falls over when Madi skates by, arm thrust out and—“That’s a penalty,” Bellamy screams. It doesn’t make a difference. 

There’s only a few inches of space between Madi and the so-called goal crease Jasper is crouched in, but Bellamy can already see where she’s going to shoot. Just over his left shoulder and right under the crossbar, keeping the puck on her stick while she moves so she can flip her wrists. Scoring on the backhand. 

Madi spins out, dropping to one knee again in a celebration that Bellamy is starting to think is habit, pumping her right arm while she grins. 

He’s jumping. 

He doesn’t remember deciding to do that. 

It also doesn’t seem to make much of a difference. 

“What a move,” Bellamy cries, something that feels distinctly like pride moving through every inch of him. He’s not sure if that’s right. Or allowed, even. But he used the word _babe_ in front of his friends and his friends keep casting meaningful glances and—

It’s so easy. 

It’s so normal. 

Like exactly what home is supposed to be. 

So, for approximately the next seventy-two seconds, Bellamy lets himself be proud, lets the warmth that seeps into the spaces between his ribs feel just as normal as everything that’s happened in the last week. He lets himself be happy. 

“You guys are so bad at defending,” Bellamy continues. “You break anything out there, Monty? Any strains we should worry about? You got a doctor on your team, after all.”  
  
“That’s better trash talk,” Emori grins, tapping her stick with Madi’s. 

Monty rolls his eyes. “In case you hadn’t noticed, my doctor teammate is too busy celebrating her kid’s goal to be worried about the state of my muscles. Also, as the kid’s coach, I’m going to take full credit for that move.”  
  
“The doctor also might be a little more worried about other people’s muscles on this lake too, don’t you think?” Murphy adds. “Is the penalty over now?”  
  
“You guys tell me,” Bellamy shrugs, ignoring the way his heart flips and flops when Clarke doesn’t argue. Or stop celebrating. It was a ridiculously good move. “How badly do you want to lose?”  
  
“Oh shut up,” Monty grouses. “Fine, fine, you can come back on the ice.”  
  
“Wow, thanks commissioner.”  
  
“I will bet you twenty-two dollars and fifty cents that you don’t score again.”  
  
“Fifty cents?”  
  
“Take it or leave it.”

Bellamy hums, a quick nod and his lower lip stuck out slightly if only because he knows Clarke is looking and he can see her tongue press against the inside of her cheek when he gets back on the ice. “Deal,” he says. “So, uh—hat trick in the first period, or….”  
  
“Your confidence is not attractive.”  
  
“I’m not trying to be attractive for you.”

“That’s gross. You’re gross.”  
  
“I’m going to score on your garbage goalie.”  
  
“I can hear you,” Jasper shouts, as Madi tries to disentangle herself from Clarke’s hug. She’s still staring at Bellamy. 

He grins. And twists his eyebrows. “Yeah, that’s the point. Let’s play some more, huh?”

* * *

He doesn’t hat trick in the so-called first period. 

It’s close — which Bellamy will claim is worth at least a quarter, possibly thirty cents, in a totally separate bet, but Jasper does make a good save, a sprawling thing that makes them all shout more insults about torn muscles and strained quads and they need new material. 

And Harper somehow finds the back of the net in the second, a bad goal on a bad play by Murphy and even worse play by Emori in the neutral zone and it’s probably wrong that Bellamy is impressed by Madi’s very clear frustration at both of those things. 

Clarke laughs.  
  
He forgets about nearly everything else after that. 

* * *

“I want a timeout!”  
  
“Can you do that?” Emori asks, Monty already moving towards the edge of the lake and a bag that is filled with equipment and it takes him a moment to get the whiteboard out. 

Bellamy groans. “Oh my God, did you bring that with you?”  
  
“No,” Monty snaps. “I just summoned here with my previously undiscussed magical powers.”  
  
“You’re a funny guy, you know that?”  
  
“Yes, I do. I’m calling a timeout to draw up a play.”  
  
“Maybe we don’t mention that out loud, babe,” Harper suggests, dropping back into one of the chairs still lined up. “Just—you know, basic strategy.”  
  
“Or,” Jasper says, “he’s lulling Bell and company into a false sense of security because—”  
  
“—We are still winning,” Murphy hisses. 

“I’ve made better saves than you today.”

“Timeout,” Monty calls again. “Go to your bench with your team, Bell. Try and come up with something that’s going to hold your lead.”  
  
“Just holding onto the puck?” Bellamy shrugs. “Or scoring on the empty net when you have to pull Jasper eventually.”  
  
“We’re going to score before then.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Get out of here.”  
  
Bellamy tries to infuse as much sarcasm into his responding nod, Madi at his side and she laughs when he tugs her towards a different set of chairs. Murphy is already sitting. “So, fearless leader,” he drawls, “what’s your great, big plan?”

“They’re going to have to pull Jasper eventually. And—well, as long as we don’t mess anything up in the neutral zone…”  
  
“Oh don’t do that,” Emori grumbles. “I am not a hockey person.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Weren’t you supposed to score more? How are you not scoring at will?”  
  
Bellamy ignores that. And whatever look lands on Murphy’s face, far too amused to be team-like. “Right,” Bellamy mutters, “stay aggressive in the neutral zone, keep firing at Jasper. The more shots we take the better chance we have of adding to this lead.”  
  
“Wow,” Murphy says. “They pay you for this knowledge in the league?”  
  
“I’m not the coach.”  
  
“Thank God.” 

Bellamy kicks him. “How ‘bout you don’t give up another garbage goal, huh?”  
  
“Lead by example.”  
  
“I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
Murphy chuckles, pushing up and kissing the top of Emori’s hair when Monty proclaims the _timeout over_ , and Madi tugs on Bellamy’s sweatshirt. “Keep shooting,” she says. “Jasper can’t stop that wrister over his right shoulder.”  
  
“I can hear you,” Jasper says again. Madi shrugs. 

“Good!”

* * *

There’s not really a timer in the Weeks Lake game. 

The concept of periods is mostly just that. 

They play by intuition and something less hokey than that, digging the blades of their skates into the ice until there are small piles of snow in places they shouldn’t be, all of them a little out of breath and getting more determined to win with each passing moment they don’t keep track of.

It’s starting to get colder — a weird contrast to the warmth that Bellamy hasn’t been able to shake, even with the wind and the threat of snow and they probably should have tried to clean the ice at some point because it’s getting harder to handle around the obstacles they’ve created themselves and—

Clarke bumps him. 

It takes him far too long to realize she’s checking him. 

Or trying. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, not able to stop himself from smiling and his hair is sticking to the back of his neck. 

His thighs hurt and his skates really are laced too tightly, but all of that seems almost worth it when Clarke’s stick tries to get the puck off his and there are no boards to battle against. He curls around her instead, longer arms and more strength in his right hand as he does his best to ignore just how well she fits. 

In front of him. 

Next to him. 

Possibly in the center of goddamn everything.  
  
It’s an admittedly melodramatic thought to have while Monty is shouting “get the fucking puck, God, what are—oh shit, damn, sorry Madi.”

Clarke laughs, which only serves to press her body even closer to Bellamy’s and he can’t stop whatever sound flies out of him. A gasp, a groan, a hit of his breath, head falling half an inch towards Clarke’s hair and distinct lack of helmet. 

“Am I winning?” she asks. “I think I might be winning.”  
  
“If you have to ask, I can guarantee you are not.”  
  
“It seems like I am though.”  
  
“You do not have the puck,” Bellamy points out, twisting again and that gets a gasp out of Clarke. He’s kind of forgotten about his friends. 

And the game. 

Well, no, maybe not the game. He likes winning. That’s, like, a pro athlete rule or something. 

“Say that again without sounding like you’re struggling here,” Clarke challenges. She’s having a difficult time keeping her balance, all bent knees and moving hips, mumbled frustrations when the toes of her skates don’t do much to help. 

“No toe pick, huh?”  
  
“Give me the puck.”  
  
“That’s not how this works at all,” Bellamy chuckles. His free arm curls around her waist, moving her half an inch to the left — if only so he doesn’t embarrass himself completely, but she’d already been far too close to him and the state of his breathing doesn’t have anything to do with the amount of skating he’s done in the last hour or so. 

“Oh man, please. Tell me how it works. Exactly.”  
  
“Why are you trying to check me, Princess?”  
  
“I was under the impression that’s how the game worked.”  
  
“Did you used to ice skate?”  
  
“You don’t get to use that for your weird trash talk initiative.”  
  
He laughs, dragging the puck as far away from Clarke as he can — even while she tries to work out of his grip. She grumbles and grouses as she moves, hair threatening to find its way into his mouth, or at least smack him on the side of the cheek and Bellamy ducks his head. Mostly so he can kiss just behind Clarke’s ear. 

She stops moving. 

“There are other people out here,” Murphy yells. “Who would also still like to play the game! Or at least get to the winning part!”  
  
“Are there more traditions for this?” Clarke asks, still trying to use her elbows to her advantage. 

Bellamy clicks his tongue. “You don’t stop flailing your limbs around and they’re going to send you to the box for two minutes.”  
  
“You are not answering any of my questions.”  
  
“And you are all wasting time,” Harper adds. “Can we flirt post-game?”  
  
Bellamy shrugs, Clarke spinning against him. Her hands find his chest, fingers curling into the front of a sweatshirt he found in the back corner of one of Indra’s closets. It’s got a Team USA emblem on it. And might be twenty years old. 

He’s going to take it back to New York with him. 

Maybe. 

He’s starting to get a lot of ideas about the sweatshirt he didn’t expect. And ideas about...everything else. 

Clarke’s lips twitch. “Well,” she prompts, “what do you think?”  
  
“About?”  
  
“Flirting post-game.”  
  
Bellamy nearly falls over. He shouldn’t — none of this is all that new, even with its one-week constraints, and they’ve done a pretty fantastic job of flirting throughout that week, but his mind is racing and it’s a one-goal lead and he’s pretty confident Clarke isn’t talking about this game.

Technically. 

He hasn’t packed any of his stuff in Indra’s cabin. There wasn’t much to begin with, but there also wasn’t much time between leaving the house that morning and going back to get his clothes and he didn’t want to, so—he didn’t. He hasn’t really let himself think about it — the rental car he has to drive back to Dulles tomorrow afternoon and how he actually has to leave tomorrow. So, Bellamy nods instead. 

“I think we can work with that. Right?”  
  
“I was the one asking,” Clarke says. 

“Oh my God,” Jasper yells. “What is happening?”  
  
Bellamy tilts his head, the very specific spark in Clarke’s gaze when her eyes drop to his lips making his wrist go a little limp and his grip on his stick isn’t what it was twenty-six seconds earlier. “Kissing?” he asks. “I think it’s kissing, right?”  
  
“Idiot,” she mumbles. Against his mouth. She’s smiling. 

He tightens the arm that hasn’t moved away from her waist, 

They don’t move very quickly — probably because Clarke really is not good at standing on the ice, but that almost makes it better, lets the feel of her and this and them slink into Bellamy’s veins and wrap its way around his muscles and the base of his spine, curl in the pit of his stomach and directly around his heart. 

The expanding one. 

The one that’s beating a little unevenly because Clarke’s tongue swipes across his lips and her soft sigh as soon as they break apart feels like it almost reaches out and brushes across Bellamy’s cheek. 

Seriously, he’s the most melodramatic man in the entire Tidewater area.

“And you should pay better attention,” Clarke adds softly. It’s difficult to hear over his pulse and the way both Monty and Jasper are yelling, arms thrust in the air and even Madi is screaming _Go Clarke go_ , the puck no longer on Bellamy’s stick. 

He blinks. 

Several times. But the scene doesn’t change and his brain can’t possibly be expected to recover that quickly, still a little preoccupied with tongues and kisses and—

“Oh shit, “Bellamy hisses, pushing off and he knows it’s a lost cause as soon as he starts. Clarke’s already halfway down the ice, Murphy trying to scramble back into net because no one ever really keeps time in the Weeks Lake game and there’s still time for a comeback. 

“Make a move, Clarke,” Madi cries. “Just—go forehand or something.”  
  
She doesn’t. 

She skates in an almost too-straight line, barreling down on Murphy, who makes sure to point that out at the top of his lungs. And shoots. 

This is a lake and Arkadia and there are no boards and no penalty boxes and no lights on the top of the net, so it takes them all a moment to realize that—

“Did I score?” Clarke asks no one in particular. “Seriously, did that just happen?”  
  
Murphy throws his stick. 

Madi races down the ice, almost knocking Clarke over — and at least knocking the wind out of her — Monty’s eyes boring a hole into the side of Bellamy’s face like he’s the only person who can answer that question. 

“Shut up,” he says instead, which is definitely the wrong answer. Jasper crows, delight and hysterics and he doesn’t look all that threatened when Bellamy tells him, "I will check you.”  
  
“The slash you never got, huh?” Jasper asks 

“Sounds like you’re admitting that you made up a slash call and then gave a shorty.”  
  
“Ew, get out of here with your jargon.”  
  
“He’s trying to impress Clarke,” Harper says, more elongated enunciation for added embarrassment. He’s got to stop thinking so alliteratively. 

Bellamy resists the urge to throw his stick as well. 

“It’s not working anyway,” Clarke promises. “Something about keeping your wits, Bell.”

Jasper almost falls over with the force of his laugh, Emori’s head all but disappearing into Murphy’s shoulder when her shoulders start to shake. 

Bellamy scowls. 

Clarke beams. “So what happens now? Do you guys end in a tie or are there more weird rules that we have to follow?”  
  
“It pains me that you think any of this is weird, don’t-call-me-doctor,” Monty sighs. “Also that was a good play. We’re going to make fun of Bell for the rest of his life.”  
  
“That was my plan too, yeah.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Clarke echoes, and Bellamy’s mind trips over all of the lines they never bothered to put on this ice. 

Monty hums — like he’s coming to terms with that sentiment, and they’ve never actually had a tie game, so Bellamy isn’t sure what they’ll do. 

“You go to a shootout, right?” Madi asks. “I mean someone’s got to win.”

And it’s been years since Bellamy has been here, years since he’d even considered the possibility of coming home or what that would mean. To him or the people around him or the collective unit they’d always been before everything seemed to fall apart. It was stupid to think it had fallen apart completely. 

Maybe just a few cracks in the ice. 

A few lines left by skate blades that weren’t as sharp as they had been or could be. 

It’s an admittedly jumbled metaphor. 

He’ll blame everyone staring at him. 

Like they’re waiting on him. Again. Or still. 

“Yeah, ok,” Bellamy nods. “Let’s have a shootout.”

* * *

“Should we do something about the ice?” Monty asks, Jasper and Murphy a few feet away and arguing loudly about which net they should shoot at it. 

Bellamy shrugs. “You got a secret zamboni you’re hiding somewhere?”  
  
“Funny.”  
  
“It was, yeah.”  
  
“No, it wasn’t,” Clarke objects. She’s digging the toe of her right skate into the ice, Madi stick-handling next to her and they’ve never actually had a shootout on Weeks Lake before. 

Every game they played when they were kids ended in so-called regulation, but they also had more people and Bellamy is only a little worried that his phone has frozen in his bag. From either the cold or the inevitable stream of text messages from Octavia. 

“See,” Monty proclaims, a flailing hand that doesn’t do much to help him stay upright and both Emori and Harper snicker when he wobbles just a bit. “Oh, c’mon, do not. That’s—my point here is that the ice is kind of a mess—”

“—It’s a lake,” Clarke reasons. “How long do shootouts normally go?”  
  
Madi groans. “Until we win. Someone has to win!”  
  
“So I’ve heard. That’s not an answer to the question, though.”  
  
“You know something,” Harper mutters, leaning forward to tug the puck away from Madi, “I think the kid may be more win-hungry than all of us combined, which is pretty goddamn impressive since I’ve known Bell for a long time and I didn’t think it was possible to be more intense than he is when he’s playing.”  
  
Clarke’s eyes dart Bellamy’s direction, one side of her mouth quirking up and he’s starting to think that it’s almost better if the ice is a mess. He can still skate around it. Or, something. The metaphor is a little jumbled again. 

All he knows is he wants to. Skate. And a whole slew of other things. 

Murphy collides with his back. 

“Shit,” Bellamy breathes, and he’s got to stop staring so obviously at Clarke’s mouth. It’s making it difficult to focus on anything else. “What do you want?”  
  
Murphy makes a reproachful noise — directly in Bellamy’s ear. “Were we not going to shootout? Why are we standing here?”  
  
“You weren’t standing here. You were yelling at Jasper.”  
  
“No, no, no, I was explaining to Jasper why it was idiotic to suggest we shoot at different goals—”  
  
“—That’s not how shootouts work.”  
  
“I know! Tell that to the local town idiot.”  
  
“You say that like I’m going to resent it,” Jasper says, tugging his goggles back down over his eyes. “Come up with better, newer and more exciting insults. Also, I don’t care what net you guys shoot at as long as we shoot quickly and I can go somewhere that will allow blood flow to return to my feet.”  
  
“Are your feet cold, Jasper?” Bellamy quips.  
  
“We have been out here for ten-thousand years.”  
  
“An approximation.”

“Give me back my skates.”  
  
“I’m not going to give you back your skates.”  
  
“Yeah, I figured. So, I’ll ask again. We doing this?”  
  
“God, not if you phrase it like that,” Harper grumbles. “Use some verbs.”  
  
Jasper chuckles, swatting his goalie stick at the side of Murphy’s legs, but Murphy is still draped over Bellamy’s back and Bellamy is still kind of staring...openly at Clarke and—“God, all of you are so dumb,” Monty grumbles. “Alright, babe, you want to shoot first? You go five hole against Murphy, give us the lead and then whoever Bell shoves at the ice won’t be able to answer.”  
  
“You’re an incredible coach, Green,” Murphy says. “Really. The technique, the strategy. It’s all just flawless.”  
  
“None of you deserve to be as confident in your humor as you are.”

Murphy laughs — more noise that Bellamy has to grit his teeth against, but then Harper’s moving and he can finally stand up straight when there isn’t a body hanging off his back. It makes it easier for him to see the net, Murphy twisting on his skates while Harper drifts slowly closer, taking an almost questionably large turn at center ice. 

“Going wide, huh, McIntryre?” Bellamy yells, and she can’t wave a dismissive hand over her shoulder the way he knows she wants to.

“I hate you,” she cries instead. 

“You’re going to have to speed things up if you want to hit that five hole.”

“This is not helping,” Murphy hisses. “But seriously—Harper, what angle are you taking here? I can see exactly where the puck is.”  
  
Monty is pinching the bridge of his nose. 

And Harper does start to pick up speed eventually, pushing off her right foot so she can go forehand to backhand, back to forehand and—

Murphy kicks his leg out.  
  
It doesn’t matter. 

The puck is sailing towards the other side of the lake 

Bellamy lets out a low whistle, Harper’s curses obvious even when she clasps a hand over her mouth. “Oh, not your best look! Did you even get the shot off?” 

She didn’t. He knows it. She knows it. Everyone on the ice and most of the people in Arkadia know it. Harper throws her stick at Bellamy. 

It doesn’t land very close to him. 

“Got to work on your approach,” he smiles. She flips him off. “There are children here!”

“Oh shut up,” Harper sneers. “First of all, you were distracting. Second of all, your trash talk really could use some work and—”  
  
“—Wait, wait, wait, I thought it was distracting?”  
  
“They are not mutually exclusive!”  
  
Bellamy hums. “Was there a third thing on this very important list?”  
  
“I will punch you, I swear.”  
  
“Nah,” Jasper objects, pushing Harper’s stick out of the way before moving into the net and crouching down. Madi can’t seem to stop laughing. “We decided we weren’t going to give into our baser hockey instincts today. Y’know, for the sanctity of the children.”

“The child can definitely hear you,” Clarke points out. 

“The child is also almost too competitive.”  
  
“And going to score on you,” Madi announces. “Bell, can I shoot first?”  
  
His face is going to get stuck mid-grin. That actually might help him when he gets back to the league. It’d probably freak out everyone he lined up against. Bellamy nods. “You’re already moving, aren’t you?”  
  
“Yeah, well, you do keep staring at Clarke and getting distracted. So…”

Madi shrugs when Bellamy’s lips part, Clarke’s mouth snapping audibly shut and it must be some kind of medical marvel that Monty’s legs don’t just give out on the ice. He doubles over, an arm around his stomach, while Murphy’s moved to rest of his body weight on Emori. 

Harper might actually be crying. 

There isn’t much time to linger on the pointed and far-too-true opinions of a twelve-year-old though, particularly when that same twelve-year-old is already moving up the ice, confidence wafting off her and Jasper barely moves when Madi’s wrists do. 

Because for as easily as the puck had rolled off Harper’s stick, it’s the opposites for Madi, a flick to her backhand and shot that sails straight up, right under the crossbar into a wide-open goal. 

Monty practically jumps up. 

Murphy drops his stick. And one of his gloves. 

“Shit,” Bellamy says again, Clarke’s quiet laugh just enough noise to pull his eyes away from the goal and Madi’s celebration and she’s smiling when he looks at her. 

“That was good, right?”  
  
“Better than. Shit—God, it’s kind of lame I can’t come up with another word except that, isn’t it?”  
  
“I find kind of endearing actually. In an overwhelmed sort of way.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Aren’t what?” Clarke asks, a hint of nervous energy to those two words. 

“Overwhelmed. Like—it’s almost ridiculous how much I’m not.”  
  
“Double negatives.”  
  
“Was it?”  
  
“Yes,” Jasper answers, not bothering to skate around Bellamy or Clarke. None of them have any concept of personal space, it seems. “So I’m clearly not the only one who can’t structure sentences here.”

“That wasn’t very good grammar either,” Clarke says.

“Has Indra tried to give the kid a gold medal yet or just planted that thought seed?”  
  
“Did you just call it a thought seed?”  
  
“The English language is a real challenge for you, isn’t it?” Bellamy asks, and he’s not entirely sure when his arm found its way back around Clarke, but it probably has something to do with the distinct lack of overwhelmd-ness he’s currently feeling. 

Not a word. 

And Monty hits the crossbar. 

Which means—

“Can you win now?” Clarke asks, Bellamy squeezing one eye shut when he nods because he’s always been the competitive one. 

“If we’re playing normally. Starting best out of three is how it works in the league.”  
  
“Don’t insult our pickup game like this, Bell,” Monty says. “Obviously we go best out of three to start. Like—that’s just obvious.”  
  
“Is it?”  
  
“Can you just go score on Jasper? I’m starting to get cold too.”  
  
“You guys might want to get that checked out,” Clarke says. “This whole being cold thing. Could be a sign of nerve damage or something.”  
  
“Wow, that’s menacing.”  
  
“Or you’re wimps. You know, either or.”  
  
“I thought we decided we weren’t going to trash our teammates,” Emori laughs, back in one of the folding chairs with a thermos that deserves awards if its contents are still warm. 

“Not trash talk, flirting,” Harper argues. It’s not really an argument. More facts, or whatever. 

“Ok, I’m going to go score now,” Bellamy announces. He taps the side of his stick against Monty’s ankle when he moves, ducking his head to kiss Clarke’s temple and he’s fairly positive he hears her actually giggle before he moves, but then he’s skating and everything kind of shifts after that. In a very competitive, decidedly not overwhelmed sort of way. 

He can’t remember the last time he took a shootout attempt, but he can remember the first one — his rookie season and a late playoff push and he hadn’t been sure the puck crossed the goal line at first. 

It had felt like his heart was in his stomach and his throat, more impossible medical achievements by a body that had been flush with adrenaline and nerves. And the seconds had seemed to stretch, impossibly slow and far too fast, all at once, until Bellamy had heard the whistle and saw the referee’s arm move and it was his first game-winning goal. 

Now is different than that first time, but the contradiction — slow and fast — is still there, a mix of both that helps settle some of the ridiculous nerves fluttering in the pit of Bellamy’s stomach. 

He goes wide on his approach.

And there’s a pile of snow where the far faceoff circle should be, Bellamy skating towards that before he angles back towards the goal. He can hear the running commentary behind him, more trash talk and opinions, but none of the words really register, his brain far too preoccupied with a mix of memories and wants and Jasper’s already gone low. 

Bellamy slows down. 

At the same time his hands speed up. 

He’s barely skating by the time he closes in on the net, but the puck is closer to a blur than an actual piece of rubber. Bellamy starts drifting towards his right, momentum pushing him that direction, and his hands don’t stop because he can see the sliver of space just above Jasper’s right shoulder. 

He takes the shot. 

And scores. 

Whatever noise flies out of him is a product of half a dozen seasons of disappointment and the certainty that none of this was possible — a return of feelings and emotions and joy, real, genuine _joy_ at the prospect of winning, to be certain he not only wants to win, but maybe deserves to and eventually, he’s sure, he’ll be more embarrassed that he fist pumps the air. 

As it is, Bellamy is far too busy smiling like an idiot and catching Madi before she can knock him to the ground. 

“We won, we won, we won,” she chants. “That was so good! He didn’t even have a chance!”  
  
“It was pretty good, wasn’t it?” Bellamy asks, glancing down to find her grinning back up at him.

“So good.”  
  
“Modesty looks good on you guys,” Harper mutters, but she’s smiling too and only Jasper sounds annoyed. That’s fair. He really didn't have a chance. 

“How were you not going backwards?” he complains. “And still moving the puck? That was stupid. The whole thing was stupid.”  
  
Bellamy clicks his teeth. “Just a good move, I guess.”  
  
“Gross, I hate it.”  
  
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”  
  
“Don’t. I also hate you and your stupid wrists.”  
  
“Quick wrists. That’s what it always said on the scouting report.”  
  
Jasper sticks his tongue out, reaching a hand towards Emori until she gives him the thermos. “You’re the lamest professional hockey player I have ever met.”  
  
“You know a lot, then?” Clarke asks, twisting back into Bellamy’s space. The magnets appear again. And he’s ninety-two percent certain she kisses the side of his shoulder. 

It’s as close as she can get without pushing up on her toes. 

He will definitely spend more time thinking about that than the goal later. 

“Gross,” Jasper repeats. “Honestly, it’s disgusting. We all went back on our trash talk rules, let ourselves get impressed by Bell’s wrists—”  
  
“—He’s got good wrists,” Harper shrugs, Monty humming in agreement. 

“Jasper doesn’t know any other professional hockey players,” Bellamy says, mostly into Clarke’s hair. “And I refuse to accept responsibility for his shortcomings as a goalie.”  
  
“Buy me drinks,” Jasper commands.  
  
“For losing?”  
  
“For dealing with your wrists and your staring problem.”  
  
Bellamy scoffs, but there’s some heat in his cheeks that doesn’t have much to do with any of the skating he’s done in the last few hours. 

“Someone better pay for drinks later,” Murphy adds. “Or we can circle back around to the dropping gloves threat.”  
  
“Madi was the one who threatened you,” Clarke says. “And, uh—you know if you guys were looking for somewhere that wasn’t the bar for post-game…”  
  
“Shenanigans,” Harper finishes. “Is the word you were looking for.”  
  
“Something like that, at least. I just—” Clarke shrugs, eyes flitting towards Madi and Bellamy, like any of this is his choice. He winks. Badly. “Well, we’ve got a house and space and an oven that can make food.”

Murphy arches an eyebrow. “It sounds like you think you can’t get food at my bar.”  
  
“At least any that’s edible,” Monty mutters. “And yeah, that sounds great Clarke. If it’s cool with you.”  
  
“I did just invite you. Are there more traditions I should be worried about, though? Anything you have to do or the world implodes?”  
  
“You’ve got a very macabre opinion of us.”

“You all sing a lot when there’s alcohol involved.’  
  
“That’s true,” Jasper agrees. “And not really. You have music?” Clarke nods. “Food?” Another nod. “Alcohol?” Half a nod. 

“I can fix that,” Murphy mumbles. “Give me an hour?”  
  
“I’d like to regain feeling in my limbs, so yeah, that sounds good.”  
  
“We’ve got heat in our house too,” Clarke says, “so that might help your cause.”  
  
“You’re way funnier than Bell.”  
  
“I know, right?”  
  
“Ok,” Bellamy sighs, more than one less-than-subtle glance between his friends. “An hour. Be there or—”  
  
“—Oh say be square,” Harper shouts.  
  
“You interrupted me.”  
  
“Be square!”

He rolls his eyes, fingers finding Clarke’s on something almost like instinct and Bellamy isn’t at all surprised when the first knock on the door comes, exactly, forty-seven minutes later. 

* * *

Murphy brings an almost questionable amount of alcohol. 

Enough that Bellamy briefly wonders how he managed to carry all of it, but that thought disappears rather quickly once people start handing him drinks and the music starts getting louder and they let Madi pick the music.

If only because that somehow seems more responsible when they all also start stumbling over their own feet just a bit. 

Around a twelve-year-old. 

Who will not stop talking about Bellamy’s shootout goal. 

It leaves him flushed and smiling enough that he doesn’t entirely recognize the slight ache in his cheeks, Clarke never that far from his side and his friends telling stupid, old stories that continue to paint him in an entirely lame light. 

“Seriously,” Monty says, the letters starting to slur together just a bit, “one time when we were kids he talked for twenty-seven hours straight—”  
  
“—Straight?” Clarke balks.

“Straight.”  
  
“That’s not even remotely true,” Bellamy objects, but Jasper is already shaking his head from the corner of the couch. The déjà vu of this night might be starting to catch up to him. 

“Lies,” Jasper insists. “Bell could talk for at least twenty-seven hours about anything if only to prove that he’s right. Stubborn, that’s what it is. Obsessed too. That’s another good word for it.”  
  
“Should we get you tutoring help or something for your language issues?”  
  
“You could pay for it.”  
  
“Seriously, you are overestimating how much I get paid.”  
  
“What was he talking about then?” Clarke asks, falling onto Bellamy’s legs when he bends them and somehow neither one of them manage to spill their drinks. “Greek stuff?”  
  
Harper’s eyes bug. “You’ve heard about the Greek stuff? The Roman stuff? A tendency towards the ancient?”  
  
“His sister’s name is Octavia. It wasn’t that hard to piece together.”  
  
“God, you’re so much smarter than us, it’s almost intimidating.”  
  
“And we watched Jason,” Madi adds. 

The room freezes. Kind of. There’s quite a lot of very loud breathing and none of them had actually said anything about the house or its history, just danced around the subject with other memories and moments and Bellamy’s throat hurts when he swallows. 

“Did you?” Harper asks quietly. Bellamy winces. Because Clarke’s hair moves when she does, twisting to look at him with thin eyes and pinched brows and his smile suddenly feels a little forced. He’s definitely the dumbest person in that room. 

“Is that weird?”  
  
“I can’t tell if she’s asking us or Bell,” Monty mumbles. It sounds like Jasper elbows him. 

Bellamy doesn’t bother looking up to find out. 

“I told you they’d be very confident in the nerd-type status,” he says instead. 

Clarke’s eyes get even more narrow. “Yuh huh.”  
  
“If memory serves I spent forty-three minutes arguing with Indra and her daughter about a specific Roman myth and which Gods were involved because—”  
  
“—He’s the most stubborn person on the planet, and several other yet-to-be-discovered universes,” Murphy interrupts. 

Clarke doesn’t look convinced — probably because Bellamy feels like his throat is collapsing a little bit, but he’s also admittedly pretty buzzed and he didn’t go back to the cabin to shower. And he’s just about to say something, maybe suggest they go to the porch or back upstairs, somewhere that isn’t around a drunken bunch of idiots who grew up in this house so Bellamy can tell a girl he likes way more than he expected to that this is his house when—

“Oh this is my song,” Jasper proclaims, and Madi is already turning the speakers up. 

On Bohemian Rhapsody. 

“Is this a cliché?” Clarke asks, fingers finding the back of Bellamy’s hair. 

He nods. “Absolutely. But you haven’t lived until you’ve heard this guy attempt to hit the falsetto.”  
  
“Jargon.”  
  
“I know things.”  
  
“Right, right,” Clarke murmurs, until the word isn’t much more than a sound pressed against his lips and Bellamy’s lips are moving and his hands are shifting and someone throws a pillow at them. She smiles.  
  
He can feel it. 

“Are we required to dance again too?” 

Bellamy nods, nose bumping Clarke’s and that only makes it easier to let his mouth find the curve of her jaw and the space just behind her left ear. “Oh, absolutely.”  
  
“Absolutely,” Harper and Emori echo, both of them already bobbing and twisting with Madi in between them. 

They play the song three times in a row before Jasper starts looking for covers of it and that leads to an in-depth research effort made all the more absurd by thrown pillows and laughing fits and Madi likes the Panic at the Disco version best. 

Jasper finds this personally offensive. 

And they make it through most of Queen’s discography and several bottles of cheap wine, Bellamy’s head spinning by the end of it. He drops back onto the couch, not the only one who appears to be suffering from a low alcohol tolerance. 

Harper’s curled in a different chair, tucked against Monty’s side while his head tips back and his eyes start to flutter shut. Jasper is definitely texting — and it’s definitely Octavia on the receiving end — and Emori’s got her head on Murphy’s shoulder, both of them leaning against the far wall of the living room. 

The music circles to another song — Clarke drifting back towards the kitchen because the coffee table had nearly been overrun by discarded glasses — and Bellamy doesn’t flinch when he hears the footsteps moving towards him, but something feels like it shifts irrevocably in the very center of him when he realizes who’s standing in front of him. 

With a pillow in hand.  
  
“I’m tired,” Madi announces without much diction, and Bellamy can’t help his smile. He hums, slumping further down so he takes up less space, Madi not waiting for a formal invitation to flop next top him, prop the pillow on his leg and close her eyes. 

Bellamy does his best not to fall asleep as well — honestly, he does. But, he’s comfortable. And his friends have very clearly made themselves at home and—

“Hey,” Clarke murmurs, a soft hand on his shoulder when his eyes snap back open. “Can’t hold your alcohol, huh?”  
  
“Something like that. You want me to kick ‘em out?”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“The delinquents.”  
  
“That’s rude, Bell,” Murphy grumbles. “Is there some water in this place, though? Even the idea of being hungover is heinous.”  
  
Clarke nods. “Yeah, kitchen around the corner and—”  
  
“—Oh, I know.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
Bellamy’s still a little sleep-logged so it takes him a few seconds to process what’s just happened, but then he sees the look on Murphy’s face and the look on Clarke’s face and Jasper mumbles _idiot_ under his breath. 

“Something you’d like to talk about for twenty-seven hours straight?” Clarke asks Bellamy. 

“At least a twenty-seven second explanation,” he says, gritting his teeth when Madi digs her shoulder into his thigh. “Kid—c’mon, Mad, you’ve got to wake up. You don’t want to spend the whole night on the couch.”  
  
“Yes, I do.”  
  
“Madi,” Clarke sighs, but twelve-year-olds are also notoriously stubborn and Bellamy’s already standing. So. 

He tugs Madi up, a soft grunt when she lets her arms drape over his shoulders and the normal time constraints of a week have never felt less important. Clarke’s mouth moves. Bellamy is still staring. “We’ll be right back,” he promises, and it only takes a little longer than normal to get up the stairs. 

* * *

Madi tells him good night. 

And squeezes her arms around him before she retreats into her room, the paper that’s folded in the back pocket of Bellamy’s jeans suddenly feeling far heavier. 

He closes the door behind her. 

* * *

“So,” Clarke says, arms crossed when he gets back to the bottom of the stairs, “Is it super bad or just generic run of the mill bad, this secret you’re keeping?”  
  
“None of the above, honestly.”  
  
“No?”

“No,” Bellamy echoes. “C’mon, I could actually use some water.”

She follows him into the kitchen, silent as he walks and Bellamy barely fills a glass halfway before he’s jumping on the counter and kicking his leg out. He takes a deep breath. “I grew up here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like writing about sports. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're so inclined, where I'm also shouting about the fantasy series I'm rereading for at least the tenth time.


	8. Chapter 8

“Are you telling me that like I wasn’t aware of it?” 

Bellamy’s jaw hurts. Presumably because he keeps gritting his teeth at this current rate. And Clarke hasn’t sat down yet, arms still crossed and eyebrows halfway up her face, stance turning almost impatient. That makes him worry.

That’s the last thing he wanted to do. 

“No, no, I’m not—well, I’m not being specific enough.”

The mouth-staring thing has got to stop. 

It’s getting weird. 

It was definitely weird already. 

“Be more specific then,” Clarke says, an edge to her voice that makes Bellamy’s jaw ache even more. Hockey players already have shitty teeth. He can’t afford much more of this. 

“I grew up here. This—”  
  
“—Oh my God, are you kidding me?”  
  
“You can’t keep interrupting me, Princess, or I’ll never get to the interesting part of the conversation.”

She glares at him. That’s fair. 

“I’m not just talking about this town,” Bellamy continues, and his left leg is moving on its own now, he’s sure. “I mean—obviously this town, but this—”  
  
Clarke’s jaw drops. And her hands flies to her mouth. At the same time she drops into the nearest chair, legs scraping across familiar tiles. She blinks, exactly, six times, but her eyes don’t ever leave Bellamy’s face and he’s honestly pretty impressed. 

“Quick on the uptake,” he murmurs. 

“Are you serious?”  
  
“Probably depends on you and your immediate response to all of this, really.”  
  
“This is your house?”  
  
“No,” Bellamy shakes his head. “It’s not. This is your home, Clarke. But I, uh—well, I knew exactly where the kitchen was too.”  
  
“We didn’t buy this house from you.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. It’s been awhile since O and I left, so there have been a couple people here.”  
  
“Is that why you were stuck outside? Before the All-Star Game?”  
  
“It sounds insane when you say it out loud.”  
  
“Doesn’t it, though?”  
  
Bellamy hums, a twist in his stomach and directly around his heart and he hisses when the back of his foot slams into the cabinet under the counter. There are a ridiculous amount of cabinets in this kitchen. He never knew what his mom did with all of them. 

They didn’t have enough stuff to fill them. 

God, that’s depressing. 

“So you’ve known this whole time?” Clarke presses. “When you got here or…”  
  
“When you told me the address.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, yeah, that does make more sense. And you didn’t want to mention it? Because?”  
  
“Because it’s not my house,” Bellamy says, but that also sounds a little insane and he can’t really wrap his mind around everyone sleeping in the living room. Like it’s two decades earlier. “And this is—you’ve built a life here, Clarke. A good one. With Madi and—”  
  
“—And we didn’t really know anyone else a week ago,” she interrupts softly, suddenly looking very interested in the space between her feet. 

She’s not wearing socks again. 

Bellamy doesn’t think. He doesn’t consider time constraints or natural progressions of relationships that haven’t used that moniker yet. He slides off the counter and crosses the kitchen in eight steps, ignoring the questionable pop of his knee when he crouches in front of Clarke. Her fingers are warm in his. 

She smiles. 

“Your knee probably shouldn’t do that,” she whispers. 

“It’s ok, I know a doctor.”

“That shouldn’t work as well as it does. Like, as a line.”  
  
“Was it a line? You might be giving me way too much credit.”  
  
“No,” Clarke objects. “I don’t think that’s true at all. I just—” She licks her lips, which almost gets him to move again, but they never actually talked about last night and he’d kind of like to talk about last night. Or other nights. Future nights. Nights after this one. “Honestly, why didn’t you tell me this was your house?”  
  
“You’ve got to stop calling it that. That’s not what it is.”  
  
“That’s a terrible job at deflection.”  
  
“It’s flirting, isn’t it?”  
  
“Oh my God.”

He flashes a smile, not all that tired anymore, but Bellamy can’t help the way his breath hitches and his eyes close as soon as Clarke’s fingers graze his cheek. “Because,” Bellamy reasons, “I was...this was running away. Coming here was a last-ditch effort to try and find some sense of—”  
  
“—Belonging? Oh shit, that’s another interruption. Sorry.”  
  
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” Clarke scrunches her nose, disbelief etched into the small crinkles around her eyes. “I’m serious,” Bellamy promises. “I—ok, when we sold this house, when O and I left and I started thinking I couldn’t come back, I...I still hoped that...I wanted someone else to have something here.”  
  
“Something?”  
  
“Something good.”  
  
“It’s not very specific.”

He hisses in a breath — not nerves, but maybe a hint of trepidation that he won’t actually be able to explain it the way he wants. Without sounding insane. Or pushing. 

Clarke doesn’t blink. 

That helps. 

“This house. All of Arkadia, even. It’s—it’s every cliché you could think of. Small town and gossip, but even when we didn’t have anything else, when my mom was working three jobs and Octavia was getting into fights, we had this place. We had a home and a game and they were...dependable, I guess. Certain.”  
  
“Yeah, I get that,” Clarke breathes.  
  
“I know you do. That’s kind of my point.”  
  
“Which is?”  
  
“That for a really long time it hasn’t felt like I’ve had either. The game or a home and I—I told you, Clarke, I ran back here with every intention of sitting in Indra’s cabin for a week and staring at the ocean.”  
  
“Sounds boring.”  
  
Bellamy scoffs, and that time he’s sure Clarke kisses him, only now it’s the top of his head and he’s a little worried he’s going to dissolve into several far-too-emotional feelings sooner rather than later. “Yeah, it does,” he agrees. “That’s not what happened, though.”  
  
“Because you were lurking at practice.”  
  
“Your kid nearly took my head off with a puck.”  
  
“She’s really serious about hitting that crack in the window.”  
  
“I know that too,” Bellamy says, turning his head so his lips can find the inside of Clarke’s wrist and if nothing else, the very exact way her shoulders shift at that is enough to make anything else that’s happened or will happen worth it. 

Tenfold. 

“And she’ll get there,” he adds, “it’s only a matter of time.”  
  
“Still not really an explanation for the house secret.”  
  
“It wasn’t a secret.”  
  
“Try that again, babe.”  
  
He tilts his head. “You did that on purpose.”  
  
“Yes, absolutely. And I didn’t hate it when you said it, so—”  
  
“—Didn’t hate it? I’m sorry, what was that about lying?”  
  
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Clarke mumbles, and Bellamy’s thighs are starting to cramp, but he can’t even imagine moving right now. 

“That was some of my best romance work.”  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“Don’t say it like that,” Bellamy laughs, loud enough that it threatens to wake up the people in the living room. Clarke widens her eyes. “This has been—”  
  
“—Good?”  
  
“Easy,” he amends. Clarke’s eyes threaten to take up most of her face. “Ah, shit, that’s not the right word, not really. I—simple? Is that better?”  
  
“This is your story. You’d think you’d be better at it with all the mythological obsession and whatnot.”  
  
“It wasn’t an obsession.”  
  
“You want me to ask Murphy?”  
  
“Nah, he definitely fell back asleep.” Clarke’s fingers flutter against Bellamy’s cheek. “It might have been an obsession. Present tense, maybe.”  
  
“Dweeb.  
  
“Nerd, honestly. Dweeb is way more insulting.”  
  
She scoffs, a quiet laugh that’s closer to that giggle he might be increasingly obsessed with. “I’ll try and remember the appropriate terminology from here on out. So, c’mon—what’s...I mean, is it weird that we live here? Like for you as a person?”  
  
“No, no, well—maybe at first it was kind of surprising. But seriously, that’s my point.”  
  
“You suck at making it.”

“You’re very distracting that’s why.”  
  
“A compliment?”  
  
“A fact,” Bellamy says. “No, it wasn’t weird. I told you that I hoped people would move into this house. It’s—it’s a house, Clarke, I mean, that’s what’s supposed to happen, right?”  
  
“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself. And houses usually become home for people. For you, maybe.”

He swallows, mouth going dry because he didn’t realize he was breathing out of it and that’s probably not very attractive. Clarke moves her fingers into his hair. Honestly, the whole melting thing is starting to seem more and more likely. 

“Madi figured it out.”  
  
“Figured what out?”  
  
“That we lived here,” Bellamy explains. “Her room. That’s, uh—that’s O’s old room and our initials are in there and she’s honestly the smartest kid I’ve ever met.”  
  
Clarke hums. “Did you carve your initials into your house?”  
  
“I wasn’t kidding about cliché.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess not. Oh God, my room isn’t your mom’s room or anything is it? Because that’d be kind of weird and then we’d have to find somewhere else to sleep tonight and—don’t do that eyebrow thing.”  
  
He keeps doing the eyebrow thing. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“It’s not the same room,” Bellamy grins. “It’s a big house.”  
  
“A good house.”  
  
“It is, yeah.”  
  
“Why didn’t you say anything, Bell?”  
  
He hasn’t been holding his breath, so whatever oxygen soars out of him is unexpected. Bellamy huffs, still a little shaky balanced as he is on the balls of his feet, but he can’t bring himself to move and he doesn’t want to move and it smells like raspberries when he inhales. 

“This is your life, Clarke. And I—I came here with an expiration date. With no real excuse for being here except I couldn’t come up with anywhere else to go. That everything else was—fuck, it was so depressing. And so...empty. This place never felt like that. Not when I was a kid, at least. Not before it was mine.”  
  
“That is not your fault.”  
  
“Clarke, I—”  
  
“No,” she snaps, “stop that. It’s not. You don’t get to wallow in this self-deprecating bullshit because you think that’s something you deserve. I’ve done that and it’s stupid.”  
  
“That’s kind of harsh.”  
  
“Stupid, stupid, stupid. Understandable, but stupid.”  
  
“Well, now I’m getting mixed signals.”

She glares again, the expression softening when Bellamy grins. “That’s not fair,” Clarke chides. “The face stuff.”  
  
“Mmmhm, say that again except make it sound more like an insult.”  
  
“A good looking professional hockey player,” Clarke mutters, and he’s just about to ignore the inevitable pain it will cause his thighs when he stands up, so he can kiss her until they’re both a little off-balance, but she’s not done yet. Eventually that will feel like the difference. “Who gets to come home,” she adds. “And yeah, maybe there is an expiration date—”  
  
“—For what it’s worth, I’d really rather there wasn’t.”  
  
“Will you let me get my big, dramatic speech out, please?”  
  
He’d really like to kiss her. 

He’d like to date her. 

He’d like to come home to this. 

For much longer than a week. 

“By your leave, Princess,” Bellamy says, fully expecting the eye roll he gets. 

“You know part of me was sure this was a bad idea,” Clarke continues, “that letting you into the middle of all of this, right from the get was the dumbest thing I could possibly do. But I—” She sighs, tongue flashing between her teeth and her teeth finding her lower lip and maybe he’ll just stay crouched in the kitchen for the rest of his life. It’s not the worst option, all things considered. 

“You?”  
  
“I wanted to,” Clarke shrugs. “Damn, you’re right, easy was the first word I thought of too.”  
  
“Told you.”  
  
“I was positive it had to get fucked up. Because that’s—I mean, that’s kind of my schtick. Or it has been and, yeah, Madi’s on the team and she’s got friends, but I just wanted to keep to myself here and make sure she got to practice on time and—” Another shrug. Bellamy kisses the bridge of her nose. “You being around was simple. Normal, even. Like it was just...like that could just happen for us, me and Madi.”  
  
“I’d like it to.”  
  
“Don’t say stuff like that.”  
  
Bellamy swallows, throat doing something ridiculous again because there’s far too much sentiment sitting on the tip of his tongue. “I mean I already did, so. I think we might be mutual and collective disasters, you know that?”  
  
Clarke lets out a watery laugh, teeth still digging into her lower lip when she nods. “Yeah, that might be true, actually. But like in a good way?”  
  
“The best, so far.”  
  
“You could have told me about the house. It’s—”  
  
“—Yours,” Bellamy finishes. “That’s a good thing. This life that you’ve built. It’s, shit, it’s so fucked up to tell you that I’m jealous of it. And I did want to tell you, especially this morning when Madi was here and she knew. I just…” 

They’re going to set a record for shrugging in emotionally-charged conversations. 

“Coming here was depressing. Trying to find something I thought I lost and couldn’t get back and then you were here and Madi was here. And I—for as much as I wanted people in this house, I could never rationalize those same people living in it. Until you made fried ravioli.”  
  
“Well, I’m really good at that, that’s why.”  
  
“And everything else.”  
  
She blushes. Bellamy counts that as a victory. A game-winning goal in a shootout, even. 

“You are,” he says, “it’s—it might be messing with me a little bit. Because it’s easy and simple and normal and every other piece of garbage adjective I will eventually be able to come up with. Because you spent a whole night talking trash at a broken air hockey table and—”  
  
“—It wasn’t broken, you were just bad,” Clarke argues. 

“And you lurk at practice as much as I do. Even with your excuses. Which kind of made me feel like we had some sort of understanding from the get.”  
  
“Rude.”  
  
“And,” Bellamy adds, crowding even further into Clarke’s space until his hand finds her hip and he can’t resist the urge to let his fingers move under the hem of her shirt. “We are really, exceedingly, very good at making out.”  
  
“You bring up a very good point.”  
  
He smirks. On purpose. Because it means Clarke will keep blushing and keep looking at him like that and Bellamy’s fingers drift higher. “Right? I didn’t want to fuck that up, Clarke. Barreling in here and telling you that I knew where the kitchen was and could tell you exactly how to break into this house if you ever forgot your keys and that step nine steps up the staircase creaks no matter what you do. You've got a life. But I like being here with you. It’s been—shit, what’s a better word than good?”  
  
“Great?”  
  
“More than. I like you too. And this has been...for as familiar as everything else is, the town and the rink and being on the ice, you and me? That’s been different. In the best way. Unexpected and ridiculously good.”  
  
“Say that again.”

He doesn’t. He nips at her lower lip instead. “Spending time with you, it’s...even if—I still have to leave tomorrow, but it'd be—”  
  
“—I don’t want that either,” she says quickly, and his heart explodes. It must. If the way his chest tightens is any indication, the audible shift in his pulse and Bellamy cannot do anything except kiss her. He surges up and the chair nearly falls over, but none of that matters when Clarke’s arm finds its way over his shoulders, tugging on his hair and scratching not-so-lightly at the back of his head and for a moment there is nothing else. 

There’s no deadline. 

No looming flight. 

No friends in the other room. 

There’s no history, no past mistakes or mutual disappointments. 

There is only this and them and collective pronouns in a home that’s starting to feel like just that. So, Bellamy doesn’t think about anything else. He tilts his head and pulls Clarke as close to him as he can, stumbling when they twist and he collides with the side of the side of the kitchen table. 

It at least gives him some leverage. 

And he’s not entirely sure when Clarke moved between his legs, only grateful that she has, roaming hands and slightly painted breaths and her hair absolutely everywhere. Bellamy curls his fingers into it, his other hand flat on her back, like that will help the moment last a few seconds longer or keep her exactly where she is and he has to squeeze his eyes closed to stop from making noise as soon as Clarke’s hips rock against him. 

She gasps anyway. 

“Stop smiling,” Clarke chides, but there’s not much frustration in the words. 

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“Not an order. A strongly-worded suggestion.”  
  
“Nuh uh.”  
  
“Oh, we’re back to being articulate, are we?”  
  
“Something like that,” Bellamy mutters. He can’t stop smiling. Won’t. Whatever, the words aren’t important. At least not in this instance. “I like being here. With you. And Madi. And I—for the first time in a really long time, I felt like I could take a deep breath.”

She leans back — in what feels like more slow motion, another round of déjà vu that Bellamy doesn’t entirely appreciate, but then Clarke is staring at him and it’s all steady and a little warm around the edges, as if that’s something a look could ever be, but he might be tumbling into the deep end of _everything_ , so Bellamy isn’t overly concerned with the logistics of it all. 

And she absolutely, positively moves first that time. 

Lets her lips brush his and her nose find the curve of his cheek and the side of his jaw and he’s sitting up a little straighter because anything more feels like it will snap something or shatter it and—“Let’s go upstairs,” Clarke says. 

Not a question. 

Not an order. 

A request. 

Hope. 

Bellamy nods. “Yeah, ok.”

* * *

There’s no trail of clothes this time. 

No rushed movements or stumbled steps. This, Bellamy knows, is the far more responsible move and vaguely mature decision — considering all the people still camped out in a variety of places in this house, and part of him wonders why he’s not more disappointed at the lack of desperate attraction, but the rest of him knows there’s something to be said for steady and they pause at least three times to kiss. 

So.

He assumes it all evens out in the end. 

And the bed doesn’t creak quite as loudly when they fall onto it this time, which also seems like a step in the right direction. Or the opposite of that. Bellamy has no intention of walking anywhere for the rest of the night. 

“You gotta stop looking at me like that,” Clarke mumbles. 

“Like what?”  
  
“Like—God, I don’t even know. It’s...distracting.”  
  
Bellamy’s eyes widen. Clarke scrunches her nose. “Is it just?”  
  
“Please,” she scoffs, “you know it is. We did talk about corners of the internet that are very likely into your face.”  
  
“I’m more worried about your corners.”  
  
She giggles, directly into the pillow her face is pressed against, body shaking and the sound rattling around the room. “That definitely loses you some attractive points, I’ll be honest.”  
  
“Noted.”  
  
“Like, what are you suggesting, then? That I have corners? Am I...some kind of polygon?”

“This is insane.”  
  
“Parallelogram? Pentagon? Hexagon? Oh, oh, what about a rhombus? Those were always my favorite when I was a kid.”  
  
“You had a favorite shape as a kid?”  
  
“Ok, let's not get into the specifics of liking weird things as a kid, nerd.”

“Yeah, but my interests were practical,” Bellamy argues, fingers drifting up Clarke’s side. There are goosebumps on her arms. 

“Please, tell me, exactly, how an obsession with Greek myths is practical.”  
  
“Got you to ask me out.”  
  
“I have no memory of that at all.”  
  
“You wound me. By my count, you’ve managed to ask me out like—half a dozen times already. So, I’d say my lame lines and weird childhood obsessions are really working for you.”

Clarke makes another noise, not quite a scoff, but maybe just the generic sound of disbelief because Bellamy is absolutely smirking at her again and he’s not sure he’s really ever looked at anyone the way he looks at her. 

“Also,” Bellamy adds, “I didn’t graduate college, so some of these fancy math terms are going to go straight over my head.”

“Do you not use math in hockey?”

“Only when it comes to counting my own point total and how far out we are from a Wild Card spot on this side of the break.”  
  
Clarke’s laugh lingers in the air around them, her nose seemingly stuck in its current position. “Should you have skated as much as you did this week?”  
  
“An abrupt change of conversation.”

She shrugs — tries, at least. It can’t be easy when she’s still propped on her side, and her leg hasn’t moved so much as an inch yet. That’s not a bad thing. 

It might even be the best thing. 

“I was curious, I guess,” Clarke says. “Because it’s got to be a lot of...muscles.”  
  
“We’ve circled right back around to your concern regarding my muscles.”  
  
“I think you were trying to show off a little today.”  
  
“That wasn’t a secret,” Bellamy laughs. “I was not trying to be subtle about it at all.”  
  
Clarke moves her leg, leaving Bellamy gasping and his eyes widening and she kisses just on the edge of his half-open mouth. “Have I mentioned that the shootout goal was stupid impressive?”  
  
“Not in so many words, no.”  
  
“Stupid impressive.”  
  
He nods, cheek bumping Clarke’s and hand flat against the small of her back. “That was definitely the point. And, uh—I don’t know. About the skating, I mean. Guess we’ll see when I play again.”  
  
“Which is?”  
  
“Should I be insulted that you don’t know that?”  
  
“I haven’t had as much time to Google you while I’ve been letting you buy me coffee.”  
  
“Is that what was happening?”

“Makes it seem like you were the one scheduling and planning the dates, doesn’t it?”

“Eh,” Bellamy objects, “The movie, at least, was definitely you asking. And then you were the one who started talking to me at the bar.”  
  
“That was not a date!”  
  
“You’re going to wake up the whole house.”  
  
“I hate you.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s true at all. You were stupid impressed by my ability to play hockey. You said so. Just now. I heard it.”  
  
Clarke grumbles, a few words under her breath and even less space between then when her fingers find the back of Bellamy’s hair. It makes his eyes flutter. And he can see her smile anyway. “So, that leaves you with the coffee as flirting,” Bellamy adds, “I’ll take credit for the actual asking out—”  
  
“—You were not great at that.”  
  
“What are you doing in February, you think?”

Clarke blinks. And lowers her eyebrows. Which is like some sign that Bellamy has to move and kiss that exact spot, which is exactly what he does. If only because he didn’t really expect those specific words to come out of his mouth either. 

It’s very easy to talk to Clarke. 

And ask things. 

“The whole month of February?” 

“One day,” he amends, “well, night, really. Maybe a weekend.”  
  
“You’re just saying words now.”  
  
Bellamy grimaces. “And saying them badly too.”  
  
“Are you—are you asking me to come to New York? For a night? In February?”

He’s not really nervous — so whatever is happening in the center of him isn’t so much anxiety as it is just pure, unadulterated want and even more hope and they’re both really bad at shrugging, it seems. 

Bellamy licks his lips before he answers. 

Clarke’s eyes absolutely drop to his lips. 

“Maybe a couple of days,” he mutters. “They, uh—well the Rangers do this thing in February. It’s a charity thing. Casino Night and it’s fancy and—”  
  
“—Fancy?”  
  
“Black tie, yeah.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“We have to go. Obviously. Not that I wouldn’t want to go, because, y’know—good cause and all that and—”  
  
“—It is entirely unfair how well the awkward energy of this date request is.”  
  
“Request sounds a little clinical, doesn't it?” Bellamy asks. 

Clarke kisses him. 

Instead of answering him.  
  
He’s fairly certain the kiss is actually the answer. 

And it’s not much more than a now-practiced rhythm of mouths and sweeping tongues, tilted heads and the way Clarke’s fingers push further into his hair. Her leg moves again, but that only leads to the back of her heel digging into Bellamy’s calf and then his shoulders are rolling and Clarke’s hips are rocking up and—

“God, we are really good at that,” she breathes. 

“I’m asking you. Just so we’re on the same page.”  
  
“Same sentence now.”  
  
“You’ve got very smart-type jokes, Princess.”  
  
“Keep the compliments coming, please.”

Bellamy chuckles, more goosebumps on Clarke’s skin and they’re still rocking against each other just a bit — as if they can’t bear to stop, which is either the worst thing in the world or the best thing that has ever happened to him. 

It’s another weird type of balance and contradiction that makes perfect sense. 

“Are you allowed to bring plus-ones to your very fancy charity event?” Clarke asks.  
  
“It’s encouraged.”  
  
“For real?”  
  
“For real,” Bellamy echoes. “I haven’t—well, I never have, actually. And I wasn’t kidding about the black tie. It’s a whole thing, so you’d need a dress and—”  
  
“—If there’s one thing I know, it’s uptown New York charity soirees.”  
  
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit. Also it’s downtown this year.”  
  
“Wow, curveball.”  
  
“That’s another baseball reference.”  
  
“I really do know so much more about baseball,” Clarke grins. “There’s more math in that sport anyway.”  
  
“That’s why it’s the inferior one.”

She laughs. Keeps smiling. Kisses him again. Maybe he won’t fall asleep at all tonight. He’ll just lay here and stay in the moment and the feeling and the comfort of Clarke. Full stop. 

“I can get a dress,” Clarke says, but it sounds like a much bigger thing. 

“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah."

"It’s an open bar too.”  
  
“I’m going to be honest, an open bar is not enough incentive to get me to fly to New York and wear a very fancy dress.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“How do you know there’s a but?”  
  
“Cautious optimism,” Bellamy murmurs. “Also you already said yes.”  
  
“Exactly. I wasn’t kidding downstairs. I—” She presses her lips together, a sharp exhale that quickly turns into an impossibly slow inhale and Bellamy doesn’t count the seconds before Clarke finishes her sentence. That would be insane. “It’s not...well, you’re stupid good at hockey and the nerd thing is legit, but you’re also kind of of funny and—”  
  
“—Kind of.”  
  
“You’ve seriously got to let me finish.”  
  
He lifts his eyebrows. Clarke sneers. 

“What I’m getting at is being...with you is—good. Really good. As is. And, I—well, you don’t have to sway me with the open bar. So, yeah, I can probably figure something out about New York in February.”

It kind of feels like he just scored again. 

In a way that is far less pedantic than that. 

But Bellamy’s mind can’t come up with appropriate analogies or quasi-jokes and it’s almost too obvious that Clarke is still smiling when he catches her lips with his. This whole smiling while kissing thing is pretty goddamn fantastic. 

It’s still not desperate — that low flame and something almost more like a simmer, settling and finding a place in the middle of everything else, and they do, eventually, find themselves in far less clothing than they started with. 

And that’s it. 

There are no roaming hands. No tugged-out nightstand drawer. Their legs are still tangled, but that’s really more a byproduct of a desperate desire not to leave any space between them than anything else and Bellamy isn’t all that worried about the anything else. 

They’ll have time. 

He’s positive. 

“If it’s not top-tier alcohol, I’m going to complain to the Rangers front office, though,” Clarke warns lightly, and it’s not the last thing he expects her to say. It’s very far down the list, though. 

“I’m sure they’ll appreciate hearing your feedback on the catering.”  
  
“Do we have to color coordinate?”  
  
“This isn’t prom.”  
  
“Did you go to prom?”  
  
“Nah. I was at developmental. Not really a ton of time for that kind of stuff.”  
  
“Normal human stuff?”  
  
“Exactly that,” Bellamy agrees. “And our first game is Wednesday. We play the Flyers at home.”  
  
“You going to score?”  
  
“Third-line minutes, Clarke.”  
  
“See, you say that like I actually understand what it means and I keep telling you that today’s goal was stupid good and the hockey thing is pretty attractive, so—”  
  
“—No, no, no,” Bellamy cuts in. “You never once said the hockey thing was pretty attractive.”  
  
“Seemed implied.”  
  
“It was not.”  
  
“Fishing for compliments,” she accuses, a finger stabbing the middle of his chest. 

“From you? Yes, absolutely.” 

“You’re very good at skating.”  
  
“Kind of my thing,” Bellamy mutters, and really, he’s never sure what possesses him to say the next few words that seem to fall from his mouth. Maybe he wants to. Maybe he wants her to keep looking at him like she is. 

Like he can score in his first game back. 

Even on the third line.  
  
“I don’t—” Bellamy starts. “I definitely skated more this week than I was supposed to, but all that skating made it obvious how much I wanted to...God, be better is so dumb.”  
  
Clarke’s eyes are definitely getting brighter. Possibly bluer. Entirely distracting. “Yeah, a little.”  
  
“That’s less of a compliment.”

“What did you mean, then?”  
  
“It felt like playing when I was a kid. When the game was only that. When it was just about scoring and finding the lane and—I haven’t...that hasn’t been me for a really long time.”  
  
“Doesn’t mean it couldn’t be again. If you want it to.”  
  
There’s that word again. 

Bellamy nods.  
  
“I’d like that,” he mutters.  
  
“Yeah, me too.”  
  
“Did you go to prom?”  
  
“With Wells,” Clarke says. “He bought me a corsage.”  
  
“Wow, setting the bar real high, isn’t he?”  
  
She makes a noise in the back of her throat — something that almost sounds like contentment and entirely like happiness and Bellamy’s heart threatens to explode again. Neither one of them says anything else, but Clarke’s head finds its way to Bellamy’s chest and his arm circles around her middle and he doesn’t remember falling asleep until the sunlight starts creeping back through the curtains. 

* * *

They make breakfast. 

French toast and coffee and Murphy refuses to let anyone else cook the bacon because “it’s a fine line between crispy and burned, and you guys don't know where that is."

And that at only threatens to mess with Bellamy’s head for a few seconds before the refrigerator door is being yanked open and there is not enough space in that kitchen for all of them.  
  
Madi is sitting on the counter. 

“So,” Monty says, hooking his foot around an open chair and bringing Harper with him when he sits, “do we have an over-under on when Bell will score his first goal?”  
  
“I’ll give you real good odds on a week,” Jasper answers. 

Emori clicks her tongue, widening her eyes when Murphy gapes at her far-too-obvious bacon theft. “Snooze you lose, or whatever,” she grins. “And are we not sure that a week of games before the first goal is insulting here?”

“Yes” Bellamy says at the same time Jasper makes a dismissive noise and Madi is eating chocolate chips directly out of the bag. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Monty says. “Are we counting this as a straight week? Like seven games or or seven days? Because that’s going to impact my betting decisions.”  
  
“Or you could just not bet on it,” Bellamy suggests.  
  
“I don’t think that’s true at all, actually.”  
  
“Degenerates, all of you.”  
  
“For what it’s worth, there’s no real money changing hands here,” Harper shrugs. “Whoever wins just gets to drink for free for a night.”  
  
“She says like they don’t steal my liquor every night,” Murphy growls. There is enough food being made that they could feed a small army. 

Or several professional hockey teams. 

“You’re burning the bacon,” Bellamy points out. 

“And,” Madi adds, “Bellamy’s totally going to score when they play the Flyers on Wednesday. Once you get past their first line, their defense sucks, so—”  
  
“—Hey,” Clarke chides. She flips half a dozen slices of French toast, missing Madi’s rolled eyes. “Is that true though?”  
  
Bellamy clicks his teeth. “They’ve got a very good top line.”  
  
“That’s a yes, then,” Jasper confirms. “He’s just trying to practice his PR approach. Which is stupid since no one talks to him before the games anymore.”  
  
“Clarke, don’t give him any French toast,” Harper says. 

“Yeah, I wasn’t going to. Do you need caffeine or something, Jasper, is that the problem?”  
  
“That floor has not gotten any more comfortable in the last twenty years, just FYI.”  
  
None of them freeze, _again_ , but the bacon sounds like it’s sizzling at an exceptionally high volume and both Harper and Monty lean forward to swat at Jasper’s side. 

Murphy’s eyes have gone very wide. 

“It’s fine,” Bellamy says, glancing at Madi. “It’s, uh—well, something about everything out on the table and all that.”  
  
Jasper exhales. “Oh God, finally. O has been texting me non-stop about it all week. She thought you were going to go the whole time without telling Clarke your whole sordid history.”  
  
“Would we use the word sordid?” Emori asks. “Is this house haunted or something?”  
  
“Nah, just lingering memories and all that childhood angst.”  
  
“I hope you strained a muscle in your back,” Bellamy mutters, and he’s not surprised when Jasper just laughs in response. 

“Most of the muscles in my back will never recover from last night, I am positive. But, lucky for us, you and your emotional upheaval and hometown return have led to introductions with a well-regarded doctor who—”  
  
“—I really do not care about your muscles, Jasper,” Clarke promises, dropping two plates of food on the table. 

He gasps — all fake insult, or so Bellamy assumes, especially when Jasper turns towards him, like he’s got any control over the situation at all. Bellamy shrugs. “I guess, I win,” he says.

“Ew,” Jasper grumbles.  
  
“Honestly,” Murphy nods. “There are still children present. And look at Green. He’s threatened that you guys are coming for his best relationship in Arkadia title.”  
  
“That’s probably the bet we should be worried about, don’t you think?” Bellamy asks.  
  
“Wait, what?” Monty snaps. Jasper’s expression shifts again, body twisting to try and hide his smile and muffle his laugh, and Clarke’s hand lands on Bellamy’s shoulder again. 

He honestly cannot think when her thumb starts brushing up and down the back of his neck. 

“Is no one going to expand on that?” Monty presses. “What the hell are you guys talking about?”  
  
“Ask Harper,” Bellamy says. “Also, you were the one who brought up garbage bets, so, really this whole thing is your fault.”

“That doesn’t make sense at all.”  
  
“The Flyers don’t have much scoring outside of their first line and their bottom two defensive pairs suck, I’m going to score on Wednesday.”  
  
Madi almost jumps off the counter. 

And several adults lunge at that — a sudden sense of protectiveness and something much more important that that, and Bellamy reaches his hand back for Clarke’s immediately. 

“Jeez,” Madi breathes. “Relax. I’m not going to fall over or anything.”  
  
Clarke huffs, some of the tension in her fingers disappearing. “Let’s control our limbs, huh? And maybe eat some food before—”  
  
She doesn’t finish. 

She doesn’t have to. 

There’s no more sizzling bacon to fill the space of the sudden silence that descends on the kitchen and Bellamy’s going to have to go back to the cabin to pack first. He tugs Clarke’s hand to his mouth. 

Both Madi and Jasper groan. 

“I’ve got some time,” he says. “It won’t take that long to get over there.”  
  
“Shouldn’t you dictate the plane schedule?” Harper asks.  
  
“That is not how the FAA works at all.”  
  
“That’s dumb.”  
  
“Yeah, it is. Mad, you going to share your chocolate chips, or…”

They all put chocolate chips on their French toast. 

* * *

It takes them exactly twelve minutes to stuff all of Bellamy’s clothes back in the one bag he brought with him. 

Indra’s waiting in front of her car when they walk back out, arms crossed and a wry smile on her face, like this was her plan the entire time. 

Bellamy wouldn’t be surprised if it was. 

She’s got a way of controlling things like that. 

Fixing them, even. 

And there are goodbye’s — Indra clasping Bellamy’s hand before he gives her back the keys he only kind of used, and then Monty is tugging him into a tight hug and both Emori and Harper kiss him on the cheek. 

“Don’t be a stranger,” Harper adds softly, pushed up on her toes to reach him. 

“Make sure Monty’s proposal is super romantic.”

“How much did you bet?”  
  
“More than I’m willing to admit.”

She laughs, a little watery and a little sniffly, and Jasper looks almost nervous when he takes a step forward, hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders curved awkwardly. “You, uh—it was good to see you again, Bell,” he says. “It’s...I’m glad you came back here.”  
  
“Yeah, me too,” Bellamy mumbles. The words scratch their way out of his throat, misplaced emotion that he doesn’t really have time for because there’s somehow always traffic outside of D.C. He’s stalling. 

He kind of wants to miss his flight. 

He doesn’t want to miss his flight. 

He figures the contradictions will stop once he starts winning hockey games again. 

“Should have come back earlier,” Murphy adds, slinging an arm around Jasper’s shoulder while he pushes his other hand into the open space in front of him. Bellamy takes it. “Stubborn is a pretty strong Blake characteristic, though. So, I guess it’s not entirely unexpected.”  
  
“You text O that?”  
  
“Several times when she was demanding information about you and your face and the state of your emotional breakdown.”  
  
“You’re some kind of friend, Murphy.”  
  
“And you suck at helping with inventory.”  
  
Bellamy laughs. “Yeah, that’s definitely true. You can tell O she doesn’t have to worry. At least not anymore.”  
  
“Eh, what did I just say about stubborn? Plus, you know—most of us signed up for worrying from the get. That’s how this whole known him since childhood schtick goes.”  
  
“Most of us?”  
  
“You heard me the first time,” Murphy mutters, and Bellamy doesn’t have to ask for him to be any more specific. Not when Clarke keeps shifting her weight between her feet and there are already tears on Madi’s cheeks and Bellamy takes a deep breath. 

It’s not hard to do that. 

“And maybe we try not being a total idiot from here on out,” Murphy adds.  
  
“You’re a beacon of support, you know that?”  
  
“Go tell the girl how much she’s changed your life.”  
  
“I kind of did that already.”  
  
“No shit.”  
  
Bellamy rolls his eyes. “I refuse to pay for any of my alcohol when I come back home.”  
  
“Yeah, ok.”

It doesn’t look like Clarke is crying, but her eyes are definitely glossier than usual and her shoulders are moving much quicker than they should and he’s definitely going to say some more incredibly sappy and sentimental things when—  
Madi jumps up. 

Her arms circle Bellamy’s waist, tight enough to hurt just a bit, but that also may be the landing spot of her forehead in the general vicinity of his spleen. She sniffles again, holding on like Bellamy is just going to disappear if she doesn’t and it takes some finagling to crouch down. 

He tugs Octavia’s list out of his back pocket. 

“Hey, hey,” Bellamy mutters, his thumb under Madi’s chin. “C’mon, kid—look up, it’s ok.”  
  
Another sniffle. A hand dragged across her cheek, leaving red streaks in her wake and Bellamy can’t help but glance up because he knows this look and has felt this slightly different brand of stubbornness more times than he could count. 

Clarke smiles at him. 

“This is not the end, Madi,” Bellamy promises. “I just—I’ve got to go play some more games and maybe win a few more games—”  
  
“—You’re going to win the Cup!”  
  
“Eh, we'll see. Maybe we get into a Wild Card spot first.”  
  
“You can.”  
  
“I know you think that. And that’s—” He laughs, not any humor in the sound, more like disbelief and disappointment that he hadn’t let himself have this earlier. He’s not sure he would have been able to deal with it before this exact moment. “It’s made all the difference in the world, you know that, right?”  
  
She shrugs. 

And that sniffle isn’t Madi’s. 

Bellamy nearly dislocates several things when his head jerks up, Clarke’s lips tugged behind her teeth and tears falling and she looks a little annoyed by both of those things. 

“It is,” Bellamy continues, “because I didn’t—I kind of forgot that I could do any of this. And coming home, watching how much this game means to you too...it made it all worth it again. I’m totally going to score on Wednesday.”  
  
“You better,” Madi challenges.

He moves his arms, doesn’t flinch when a forehead collides with his collarbone that time. Just waits until Madi’s breathing evens back out and the red disappears from her cheeks and—“Here,” Bellamy says, flipping his wrist to hand her the paper. “I want you to keep this.”  
  
Madi’s eyes bug. 

“Are you sure?” she whispers.  
  
“Positive.”  
  
Her fingers tremble slightly when she reaches forward, but there’s a certain type of confidence when she tugs the paper out of Bellamy’s grip, crossing her arms so she can hold it closer to her. 

“You’re going to hit traffic if you wait anymore, Bellamy,” Indra says. She’s right. Always. Perpetually. 

Something cracks when he stands up, muscles suddenly tight and Clarke closes her eyes before he’s stepped entirely back into her space, lips already parting when Bellamy’s hand finds its way back to the space between her shoulder blades. 

They rock against each other — as if they’re trying to maintain their equilibrium, or maybe just the balance that they’ve discovered in the last week, but he is admittedly far more focused on the exact angle of Clarke’s head and the smell of her shampoo and how quickly her fingers curl around his neck. 

Like she’s trying to keep him there. 

With her. 

He can still hear the shouts around them, whistles and cheers and the soft tut of Indra's tongue. It all falls away eventually. 

Bellamy closes his eyes. 

“Stupid good,” he murmurs, if only on the off-chance that it will get a laugh out of Clarke. It does. 

“Really, really way too confident in your own skills.”  
  
“I’m not hearing you complaining, Princess.”  
  
“A goal on Wednesday. To start.”  
  
“To start?”  
  
“You got a playoff push to make, right?”  
  
“I knew we’d get the lingo eventually.”  
  
“Eh, a work in progress,” she says, more words that don’t mean what they sound like. It’s not nearly as intimidating as it should be. 

A distinct lack of non-overwhelmed'ness. 

That’s even less of a word.  
  
“I like you,” Bellamy whispers.  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Ah, you’re killing me.”  
  
“I like you too,” Clarke says, tugging lightly on his lower lip and he’ll probably only think about that the entire flight. 

“Bellamy,” Indra mutters. 

He waves a hand over his shoulder, not letting his other arm move away from Clarke. “Yeah, yeah, just give me a second.”

He doesn’t try to kiss her again. 

There’s not enough time, really. 

But he can’t bring himself to walk away yet, and Clarke pushes up further on her toes, lets her arms circle Bellamy’s neck and it’s easy to feel the way she inhales when she buries her face in the crook of his shoulder. 

It makes him sway a little. 

Not off balance, not off kilter, no losing his edge in this metaphor. Just moving back and forth like he’s some kind of tide, retreating back only to return again and again and it’s the most natural thing in the entire world. 

He closes his eyes one more time. 

And Indra honks the horn of his rental car. 

“Just, uh—text me when you land?” Clarke asks. 

“Sure.”  
  
“Ok. that’s...that’s good. I’ll—”  
  
“—I’ll see you soon, Princess.”  
  
“Good.”

* * *

It isn’t until after they’ve already taken off that Bellamy realizes he never actually asked Clarke for her number. 

Idiot. 

* * *

His phone buzzes almost as soon as he walks into his apartment, flicking on a light that casts dim shadows and makes him wonder if those same shadows know what a goddamn idiot he is.

He’s got at least twenty messages, half of them from Octavia and a few from his friends and—  
  
“Oh shit.”  
 **  
[Unknown Number], 7:28 p.m.:** I think this should count as asking you out again. 

I had to ask Murphy for your number. 

M U R P H Y. 

It was embarrassing. 

**Bellamy Blake, 7:29 p.m.:** This can count as two dates.

 **Clarke Griffin, 7:29 p.m.:** Yeah, that seems reasonable.

 **Bellamy Blake, 7:30 p.m.:** You didn’t want to ask Harper?

 **Clarke Griffin, 7:31 p.m.:** You didn’t want to get my number...like days ago?

 **Bellamy Blake, 7:32 p.m.:** If I say that I kind of forgot, is that a dick move?

 **Clarke Griffin, 7:34 p.m.:** A little, honestly. 

And another line that should not work. 

**Bellamy Blake, 7:35 p.m.:** Not a line. I was kind of preoccupied. 

**Clarke Griffin, 7:35 p.m.:** Oh God, that’s charming. 

**Bellamy Blake, 7:36 p.m.:** Yeah, that’s it. I’m back in New York. 

**Clarke Griffin, 7:38 p.m.:** If I say that sucks is that a dick move?

 **Bellamy Blake, 7:38 p.m.:** Absolutely not. 

**Clarke Griffin, 7:40 p.m.:** Ok, good. 

**Octavia Blake, 9:12 p.m.** Are you home yet?

 **Bellamy Blake, 9:13 p.m.:** I’m going to say no and fully admit that it’s also the lamest thing I have ever said. 

**Octavia Blake, 9:15 p.m.** Yes. 

Although you also didn't really say it. 

You typed it. 

And I’m not as mad about you ignoring me anymore. 

Good. 

* * *

He scores. 

On the power play. 

It’s not the first unit, but goal-scoring beggars can’t be choosers or so a New York tabloid will inevitably say in its game story the next day. 

The whole thing happens far quicker than Bellamy is entirely ready for, standing at the far circle and the puck lands on his stick, so he does the only reasonable thing. 

He pulls back and shoots as hard as he can. 

He can see half an inch just under the goalie’s right elbow. 

And celebrating has never really been Bellamy’s thing — at least not for a long time, but he throws his hands up as soon as he sees the light behind the goal go off, exclamations and curses flying out of him in equal measure. He grunts when he’s surrounded by teammates, hands on his back and the top of his helmet and Miller looks at Bellamy like he’s never seen him before. 

“What a fucking shot,” he says. “That was a long time coming, man.”

“Yeah, it was. Thanks for the pass.”  
  
“Hey, you were open. You keep firing like that and I'll find you.”

Bellamy nods, skating back towards the bench and more outstretched hands and they win by two goals. He scores on the empty net. After he gets bumped up to the second line. 

There are twenty-seven text messages on his phone when he gets back to his locket. 

He reads one. 

**Clarke Griffin, 10:12 p.m.:** Stupid good. <3 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for being awesome and reading. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/).


	9. Chapter 9

“And then I totally juked him and he couldn’t keep up and—” Madi has to take a deep breath, her whole body moving with the effort behind it, and Bellamy can’t help but bite the inside of his lip. Or glance over Madi’s heaving shoulders, not quite able to meet Clarke’s amused gaze, but he’s sure it’s something about the thought and it counting and—

“—Are you listening?”  
  
Bellamy hums, more than one knuckle cracking when his fingers tighten around the phone in his hand. Madi’s eyebrows move too. “Absolutely,” he promises. 

She does not look convinced.

“There was a juke and a move and probably a goal, right?”  
  
“Well, it’s no fun if you know how the story ends.”   
  
“Don’t try and add unnecessary twists just to surprise your audience, kid. It’s not worth it.”

“There weren’t any twists!”  
  
“Just to that kid’s ankles,” Clarke adds, dropping next to Madi and their couch creaks. Bellamy’s smile widens, leaning back against the bed frame in the hotel room he’s only just stumbled into. He hates Western swings — has for as long as he’s been in the league, not all that impressed with time zones or time differences or having to live out of a bag for several days straight.

He’s still not all that into it, but there’s something to be said for scheduled FaceTimes with people on the other side of the country. They’re not really people. 

That’s far too basic. 

This isn’t basic. 

This might be...everything. And then some. 

He scored again. 

And so did Madi. 

It’s been almost two weeks and Miller’s starting to get used to the post-game phone calls and post-game video chats and he’s got almost as many opinions on Madi’s wrister as Bellamy does, so honestly the whole thing is equal parts wonderful and not even remotely overwhelming because—

“Literally put the kid on skates, huh?” Bellamy asks, another smile when Madi huffs indignantly. “That’s a compliment, you know!”  
  
“You should have scored two goals,” she counters. “You had the angle on that power play in third.”   
  
“Lots of opinions coming from your direction.”   
  
“It’s because she’s got a point,” Miller calls from the bathroom, and there’s still water dripping down the side of his face when he steps back into the room. “How’d your game go, Madi?”   
  
At some point in the last two weeks Bellamy is certain he’s removed the phrases _too quickly_ and _doesn’t make sense_ from his vocabulary. 

Neither one of them seem to have a place in this new life he’s fallen into. 

One where getting paid to play a sport is fun again and the Rangers are two points out of a Wild Card spot now and there’s some trade deadline mumblings, but nothing really about him and that’s a pretty fantastic change of pace. 

The whole thing is, really. 

It doesn’t even bother him when Miller rags about his _girlfriend_ during practice. They haven’t used that title yet, but—semantics. It’s not important. It’s fine. Better than fine. Good, great, does not require labels. 

At all. 

Just scheduled FaceTime calls and detailed descriptions of goals and Miller is trying to tug the phone out of Bellamy’s hand.   
  
“Hey, hey,” he grumbles. “C’mon, this is not your phone call.”   
  
“You make it sound like prison,” Clarke mutters, one side of her mouth tugging up. 

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “That’s got a very negative connotation. And are we not going to talk about that other kid’s ankles?”  
  
“Oh yeah, yeah, let’s hear how you wrecked another kid,” Miller crows, Madi preening just a bit because, Bellamy figures, it’s one thing to have an NHL player try and flirt with your mom. It’s a whole other thing to have two NHL players want to hear about how you destroyed some thirteen-year-old on the ice a few hours earlier. 

He hopes he’s not trying to flirt with Clarke. 

He hopes he’s obviously flirting. 

Successfully. 

Madi does as instructed — a detailed recount of the move and the goal and Miller asks about post-goal celebrations because they’ve definitely been practicing that and it should be weird that it’s not more weird. 

Double negatives are admittedly confusing. 

Bellamy has to ask someone for a plus-one ticket to Casino Night. He doesn’t really know who to ask about that. 

“So,” Madi continues, a little more breathless because she tends to rush over words when she gets excited about them. “I scored and then Connor actually won the faceoff and—”  
  
“—No shit,” Bellamy interrupts. It gets a laugh out of Madi and a pointed look out of Clarke, but he’s genuinely impressed by Connor. “Hey, maybe I’ve got a future in coaching. If that kid can win faceoffs after I talk to him, anything’s possible, right?”   
  
“I’m going to tell Monty you said that,” Clarke grins.

“Why does that sound like a threat?”

“Because it also sounds like he’ll mock you the way you absolutely deserve,” Miller says. “And, for what it’s worth, Madi, I already told Bell that he should have shot on that power play. He’s just a stubborn idiot who thinks—”  
  
“—I didn’t have an angle,” Bellamy says, not for the first time. 

Miller makes a noise in the back of his throat. It’s obnoxious. “Yeah, yeah, so you’ve mentioned. I’m just saying it’s—”  
  
“—Got to shoot to score,” Clarke finishes. 

“Exactly. See, I knew I liked you.”  
  
She nods, sudden dots of color in her cheeks that do something peculiar if not entirely expected to Bellamy’s stomach. “As you should, really. I’m a wealth of potential clichés and opinions about the entire National Hockey League as a whole.”   
  
“Oh you might lose some points for that,” Bellamy argues. “Saying the whole thing like that is kind of…lame.”   
  
“Wow, rude.”   
  
“No one calls it that.”   
  
“Call it the League,” Miller suggests. “Way less lame, then.”   
  
Bellamy shakes his head. “It absolutely is not.”   
  
“What kind of points was I losing in this situation, exactly?” Clarke asks, and it is probably, definitely, _absolutely_ just a trick of the light in their living room that makes it seem as if her eyes get bluer. Thinking anything else would be idiotic. 

The kind of thing someone who didn’t take that shot on the third-period power play would do. 

“Is it like a plus or minus thing?” Clarke presses. Miller sticks his whole tongue out in response. “What? That’s a stat, right? I mean—I looked up—I...I know things. About stats.”  
  
The sudden movement of the muscles in Bellamy’s cheeks almost hurt. 

His smile is as wide as its been since they got to the west coast — any frustration over half-packed bags or shitty visitor’s locker rooms or food options in Calgary forgotten as soon as the realization lands squarely in the forefront of his brain. 

“Did you look up stats, Princess?”  
  
“Absolutely not.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“Yeah, she did,” Madi objects, Clarke looking scandalized when she turns her head to gape at her daughter. Miller grabs a pillow to try and mask his laugh. It does not work. “She was looking stuff up on her phone when we went to the doctor the other day.”   
  
Bellamy freezes. Miller drops the pillow. 

“What does that mean?” Bellamy mumbles. It’s like everything shifts. As if the moment breaks its ankles too, or at least trips over the blue line on the way into the zone. 

Clarke holds up both of her hands, Madi hardly batting an eyelash because she’s twelve, but Bellamy’s pulse is racing and his adrenaline is spiked a little bit and, really, he probably should have at least tried to take the shot. 

Now the double entendres are also stupid. 

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Clarke says, all even and maybe a bit of forced calm. Miller elbows Bellamy in the side. 

It is not at all subtle.   
  
“And?” he prompts.   
  
“I hit the boards,” Madi explains. “Couple days ago. Hard and—I tried to move my legs before—”   
  
“—You went in legs first into the boards?” Bellamy barks. It takes everything in him not to jump up, which is not his place at all because he might have removed phrases from his vocabulary, but he still lives on this planet and he’s always been prone to overprotective. 

Somewhere, he’s sure, Octavia knows exactly what he’s doing. 

And is probably laughing about it. 

“It wasn’t that bad,” Madi shrugs. “It wasn’t like I hit my skates. Just my knee.” Miller makes a noise that time, which only kind of makes Bellamy feel better. Clarke’s tongue darts between her lips. “But,” Madi adds, “it hurt and Monty was worried and—”  
  
“—We figured we’d be safe,” Clarke says softly. 

“Better than being sorry,” Miller mutters.   
  
“Me and you. Cliché friends.”   
  
“That makes it sound a little bit like our friendship itself is the cliché, though.”   
  
“Oh, yeah, English is a weird language isn’t it?”   
  
Bellamy gapes at both of them. Which is not particularly easy since his eyes don’t work like that, but an attempt is at least made. Clarke pulls her lips behind her teeth. 

“It wasn’t that bad,” Madi says again. “I played today!”  
  
“And that was cool?” Bellamy asks. 

Miller elbows him again. Any hint of light in Clarke’s eyes almost immediately disappears. “It was fine,” she says through clenched teeth, and he feels like the idiot he absolutely is. He definitely should have shot. “I wouldn’t have been looking up plus-minus if it hadn’t been totally fine.”  
  
“That’s true.”   
  
“I know it is.”   
  
Miller sighs — flashing a smile Madi’s direction when she starts to look a little nervous, and Bellamy’s pulse is still racing, but now it’s a mix of worry and trepidation and more jokes about offsides that only kind of make sense. With maybe a bit of apology missed in.

That he should voice. 

“Miller if you move your arm to hit me one more time, I’m going to check you during skate tomorrow,” he mutters. 

Madi laughs. That was the point. 

“The knee’s ok, though?” Bellamy asks, mostly because he can’t help himself. Seriously, Octavia is probably howling somewhere right now. “No bruises or anything? Nothing with your shins or your calf?”  
  
“She wears knee pads,” Clarke reasons. “I should know I paid for them.”   
  
“How’d the stick hold up against hitting the boards?”   
  
“I dropped it,” Madi mutters. 

Whatever sound Miller makes at this is closer to a guffaw than anything else, even Bellamy barking out something passably similar to a laugh. Clarke’s lips twitch. He’s still staring at Clarke’s lips. 

“Plus-minus is an antiquated stat,” Miller announces. “The game is different now than it was when old people came up with it. Way faster. Better goaltending. Harder shooters. People who, you know, could feasibly find an angle to shoot at on a third-period power play and be able to to get the puck in the back of the net.”  
  
“Subtle,” Clarke muses. 

“I wasn’t trying to be. He ask you what color your Casino Night dress is yet? He’s definitely very preoccupied with that. And if he should get flowers.”

Clarke drops the phone. Bellamy punches Miller in the arm.

There’s a scramble for the phone on the other end, quiet curses and _no Madi, give me that back_ and—“Her dress is blue,” Madi says matter-of-factly. “And don’t people get flowers on dates? It’s a date, right?”   
  
“It’s a date,” Bellamy nods.   
  
“Right. So you get flowers and—is Clarke going to stay with you?”   
  
Bellamy has to lick his lips, ignoring the slow turn of Miller’s head and the way his stare seems to work its way through him. And really they hadn’t talked about that either, but he figured it was kind of...implied. 

Idiot, honestly. 

There’s still color on Clarke’s cheeks when she gets the phone back. “It is blue,” she says, and Miller gets the pillow again. 

It still doesn’t make much of a difference. 

“And,” Clarke adds, “did the invitation not include a guaranteed place to sleep? Because that would suck otherwise.”  
  
“Honestly,” Miller mumbles. 

The light is back. 

Bellamy only notices when he stops rolling his eyes again. “A place to sleep and flowers.”  
  
“Flowers?” Clarke echoes. 

“Well, now I know what color your dress is, so—”  
  
“—It’s been a very long time since he was on a date,” Miller interrupts. “He thinks things have to be perfectly color coordinated.”   
  
Bellamy ignores him. He stands up instead, grabbing his key off the nightstand and swinging open the door even as Miller shouts _no, c’mon, how will I be entertained now_. And it only takes a few more moments to get Madi upstairs, promises to call again after the next game and updates on how close she is to hitting the crack in the window — “So close, Bell, really, it’s going to happen soon.” — but then it’s just the possibly magical light in Clarke’s living room and the happiness that rushes through every one of Bellamy’s limbs whenever his phone rings post-game and he slides down the hallway wall. 

“You really don’t have to get flowers,” Clarke mutters.   
  
“I’m totally going to get flowers. And then also apologize for being a dick just now.”   
  
“Ah, you weren’t a dick, maybe a little—”   
  
“—A dick.”   
  
Clarke clicks her tongue, curling in on herself so she can rest her chin on her knees and that probably shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. Maybe they can leave Casino Night early. “I wasn’t expecting….worry,” she whispers. “But that might also be a dick move, huh?”   
  
“Eh,” Bellamy shrugs. “It’s kind of my MO.”   
  
“To worry?”   
  
“About everything and anyone. Or so Octavia would be very quick to tell you.”   
  
“I’d really like to meet Octavia. I think I’d like her.”   
  
“I hope so.”   
  
He’s already announced his worry for a twelve-year-old and promises to buy date-type flowers when his not-yet-determined girlfriend comes to visit him in a few days, so Bellamy isn’t sure why that feels like stepping over something they can’t retreat from, but Clarke’s brows jump and eyes widen slightly and she nods exactly once. 

“Yeah, me too.”  
  
“Blue?   
  
“Blue,” she repeats. “And not because it’s obvious or anything—just, I looked good and Harper said I looked good and—”   
  
“—You went dress shopping with Harper?”   
  
“She offered. Was very determined to be included.”   
  
“And?”   
  
"And that’s not something you have to worry about either.”   
  
Bellamy swallows. Whatever had been stuck in his throat disappears. “Ok,” he says, but it comes out like an agreement and maybe another promise. “Good. Good that’s—”   
  
“Good? You’re a little cute when you flustered, you know that?”   
  
“Cute?”   
  
“Cute. It’s the curls, I think. Distracting in a good kind of way.”   
  
He chuckles, warmth in his arms and at the base of his spine and he’s going to kiss her for at least five uninterrupted minutes as soon as she gets to New York. Possibly longer. There’s got to be corners to hide in that restaurant. 

And his apartment. 

He’s seriously considering blowing off Casino Night as a whole now. 

“And you should have shot on that power play,” Clarke adds. 

“Plus-minus is seriously an antiquated stat. There are way better metrics to measure on-ice efficiency out there now.”  
  
“Wow, check your lingo. Maybe you should be an analyst eventually.”   
  
“Well, I’ve certainly got the face for it, you said so already.”   
  
“I said you had nice hair, I don’t remember anything about a face.”   
  
Bellamy hums, twisted lips and slightly cocky smile and it gets the exact laugh he’s hoping for out of Clarke. “Idiot,” she grumbles without any real frustration in the sound. “Whatever. I think you’d be a better coach, anyway.”   
  
“The suggestion’s been noted.”   
  
“Miller will lock you out.”   
  
“I have a key.”   
  
“Think of everything, huh?”   
  
“Something like that,” Bellamy says. “I’ll see what I can do about more goals before we head back East. And tell Mad that she’s got to get her stick under the puck if she actually wants to hit the crack. Otherwise she’s going to keep ending up in the stands.”

“10-4 Coach Blake.”  
  
“You think you’re very funny.”   
  
“Maybe a little cute.”   
  
“Maybe,” he wavers, but the lie is obvious and the door swings open a few feet away. 

“I’m going to move the desk behind the door so you can’t get back in if you don’t come in now, Bell,” Miller says. 

“Told you,” Clarke mutters. 

Bellamy huffs, something cracking near his hip when he stands, but both Miller and Clarke are smiling and he’s still a little hung up on the color blue, so nothing can really upset him right now. “Night, Clarke.”  
  
“Night, Bell.”

He scores twice against Vancouver the next game. 

* * *

“I need another ticket for Casino Night.”  
  
Monroe glances up — a bemused look on her face that Bellamy doesn’t altogether appreciate. They’re back in New York and Casino Night is...tomorrow, so he hasn’t really planned this all that well, but he also had to play in some games and they’re sitting in the second Wild Card now. The tabs haven’t questioned the state of his game in a week, at least. 

“Are you not the person to ask about that?” Bellamy presses, but all he gets is a shift of Monroe’s chair and her chin propped up on her upturned palm. “Are we going to play charades?”  
  
“You know we sell tickets to Casino Night. It's like a whole charity...thing.”   
  
“Sounds real official.”   
  
“Season ticket holders pay an exorbitant amount of money to lose at baccarat while you’re standing next to them. In theory, at least."  
  
“Theory?”   
  
“Are you not going to try and sneak into some dark corner or secluded hallway somewhere so you can make out with your girlfriend?”   
  
“What?” Bellamy shouts, but he can’t get quite the right indignant tone in the question. “Are you kidding me?” 

Monroe shrugs. “Yes or no question, Bell.”  
  
“I am bringing a date to Casino Night.”   
  
“Yes, I know that. Everyone on this team knows that. It’s honestly the only thing anyone has talked about since the break.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“You’ve got to expand your vocabulary.”

He waves his hands, more movement than his right shoulder is entirely ready for. Monroe bites down on the side of her hand. 

“What the hell is going on with this team?” Bellamy demands. 

“You, was that not obvious?”  
  
“I don’t—wait, what?”   
  
“Ah, well, that was more words than the first two rounds. So, I’ll give you a pass on that one.”   
  
“Seriously, do I have to talk to someone else to get a plus one?”   
  
“Why did you think it was me, exactly?”   
  
“You’re—I don’t know...you do stuff.”   
  
“Stuff,” Monroe echoes. “I am in charge of travel, you realize that, right? Like I do not have pull with the Garden of Dreams or the fire codes of TAO Downtown.”   
  
“Do you have to add the Downtown every time?”   
  
“Yes, or someone from Garden of Dreams comes out and punches us in the face.”   
  
Bellamy scoffs, dropping onto the edge of Monroe’s desk. She tries to shove him off, but he doesn’t budge and—“She’s flying in tomorrow,” he mumbles. 

“You’re really underestimating how much Miller enjoys gossiping about you.”  
  
“It’s because he thinks he’s passing on some kind of hockey-type wisdom to Madi.”   
  
“Does your sister know?”   
  
“About Millers misplaced confidence in his one-timer?”   
  
“Don’t be an idiot,” Monroe chides. “About how ridiculously and obviously happy you are. And how it’s made you an almost talented hockey player again.”   
  
“Almost?”

“I reserve the right to all judgment until we actually make the playoffs.”  
  
Bellamy hums. “Yeah, I guess that’s fair. And, uh—yeah, I think so. Is it obvious?”   
  
“The happy thing?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Bellamy,” Monroe laughs. “You marched in here announcing you need a ticket to Casino Night like you aren’t a major part of this franchise who could dictate whatever the hell he wanted so long as he keeps scoring goals. What’s the point streak looking like now?”   
  
“Five games.”   
  
“When’s the last time you had a five-game point streak?” He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t really have to. Because it’s been seasons and years and he’s starting to wonder if he’ll just vibrate with happiness for the foreseeable future. “Did you get her flowers or anything? Where’s she landing?”   
  
“LaGuardia.”   
  
“Oh my God, do you not actually like this girl?”   
  
He flicks Monroe’s shoulder. She sticks her tongue out. “She picked the flight so she could stay in Arkadia until Madi leaves with her team.”   
  
“A little hockey family, you’ve got here.”   
  
“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Bellamy grits his teeth — not really superstitious, and he hasn’t wanted to bounce the puck on his stick once since he got back. And yet. He’s honestly the world’s worst pessimist. Or, maybe the best. Depending on your angle. 

“Oh,” Monroe breathes. “You don’t want to jinx it.”  
  
“It’s stupid.”   
  
“Yes it is.”   
  
“Are you gossiping with Miller?”   
  
“Yes, absolutely.”

He huffs, the phone in his pocket buzzing because Octavia had wanted to see what his tux looked like and everyone seems to have very strong opinions about flower-type options. The group chat in Arkadia won’t stop sending pictures. 

They started a group chat. 

“At the risk of getting preachy at you here on this find Sunday afternoon when you should probably be at a tux fitting or something—”  
  
“—I did that already," Bellamy says.   
  
“Shut up. The point is, you look good, Bell. On and off the ice and I don’t mean that in a creepy way, just—ok, don’t make that face, I am complimenting you.”   
  
“Is that so?”   
  
“So,” Monroe growls. “And you're playing as well as you have in as long as I can remember. So, if this is just...because you’ve finally learned not to totally hate yourself, then I am all for it. And I get to meet the girlfriend before Octavia. So, I win.”   
  
“You win something in particular, or….”   
  
“Joy, Bellamy Blake. I get joy.”   
  
“And bragging rights.”   
  
“That too.” She reaches out, a quick squeeze of his knee and a smile that only comes from years and shit and he really should broach the subject of labels at some point. Maybe after the flowers. Possibly before the making out in dark corners. “You do not need to ask anyone to bring Clarke—”   
  
“—Oh my God, you know her name?”   
  
“Seriously. Gossip. Everyone knows her name. I can send a car if you want, or I can send a car to pick you up first and then things can get romantic.”   
  
“It sounds suspiciously like you’re plotting.”   
  
“I take offense to that.”   
  
His phone buzzes. Incessantly. For at least ten seconds straight. 

And Monroe throws her whole head back when she laughs. 

“What time’s her flight? I’ve got to figure out if I have to factor traffic into this grand gesture.”

* * *

**Harper McIntyre, 12:21 p.m.:** I still really think you should have made a sign.   
  
**John Murphy, 12:21 p.m.:** He’s not sixteen  
 **  
Monty Green, 12:23 p.m.:** Isn’t he though?   
**  
Jasper Jordan, 12:24 p.m.:** Will there be dramatic running through the terminal? A swelling soundtrack in the background?  
 **  
Bellamy Blake, 12:26 p.m.:** That’s not how modern airports work at all anymore.  
 **  
Jasper Jordan: 12:27 p.m.:** Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. 

**Harper McIntyre, 12:28 p.m.:** The sign would have been more romantic.

**Bellamy Blake, 12:29 p.m.:** I did not make a sign. 

**Monty Green, 12:30 p.m.:** I think that means I’m still winning in the romance department. 

**John Murphy, 12:31 p.m.:** That means he made Harper a sign at the airport once. 

* * *

There’s no sign. There’s no running. There’s just standing outside the gate, bobbing almost impatiently on the balls of his feet until Bellamy sees a flash of light and it’s absolutely insane to think he smells raspberries. 

And yet. 

He still doesn’t run. Can’t, really. There are too many people and LaGuardia is the worst, but he keeps mumbling _excuse me_ and _just...ok I’m just trying to get around_ and then there are arms around his neck and he’s got arms around her waist and Clarke laughs when her shoes skim the ground. 

“No sign of upper-body injuries, huh?” she mumbles, mostly into his neck. 

“You’re ruining this.”  
  
“I’m concerned about your muscles.”   
  
Bellamy leans back, doing his best to make sure it doesn’t shift Clarke because he’s also kind of greedy and he wants to keep touching as much of her as possible. In this airport. “Cyclical,” he grins. 

“Perpetual, even.”  
  
It would be idiotic not to kiss her after that. 

Bellamy’s doing his best not to be an idiot anymore. 

Clarke’s fingers fly into his hair as soon as he tilts his head, and he hadn’t noticed the bag she’d been holding until it slams into his side, a soft grunt that rather quickly turns into something much more like a groan and maybe even a laugh because he is so goddamn happy his brain can’t quite begin to process it. 

They start to rock again, a return to the simple rhythm of this and them and those collective pronouns. Her hand shifts, twists his ear slightly and Bellamy can’t really breathe, far too focused on opening his mouth and pressing his forehead as close to Clarke’s as he can. 

He flattens his hand against her back, pulls her tight until their hips bump and her soft gasp of surprise is his new favorite sound in the entire world. 

Until she laughs again, a quiet giggle against his lips that seems to work its way under his skin and directly around every one of the muscles she’s concerned about. Bellamy’s fingers drag across her jacket, fabric bunching underneath until he finds Clarke’s shirt and the curve of her hip and she can’t seem to stop moving either. 

Her hand cups his face, both of them trying to catch their breath. They don’t move apart. Bellamy’s nose is still pressed against Clarke’s cheek, and her eyes are closed. She’s smiling. He can’t see. 

He just kind of...hopes. 

“Hey,” Clarke breathes, like they’re only just talking. 

“Hey.”  
  
“So, that was, uh—”   
  
“Perpetual or something.”   
  
“I’m not sure that made sense.”   
  
Bellamy nods, if only because it makes it easier to move his nose against Clarke’s skin and kiss the side of her jaw and it seems almost inevitable that they’re going to start making out again when someone drags a suitcase over his left foot. 

“Shit,” Bellamy hisses. “God damn, that was—”  
  
Clarke laughs. Loudly. Uproariously, even. 

“Are you not concerned with the state of my toes, Princess?”

“No, no, I just—I didn’t think you’d pick me up.”  
  
“That’d be a pretty big start of the date let down, don’t you think?”   
  
“Well—”   
  
“—It would be,” Bellamy says, a quick kiss that Clarke absolutely chases after. He smirks. “C’mon, let’s get out of here before they’ve got to send out press releases about us.”

* * *

There are no press releases. 

There are, however, an almost embarrassing number of kisses in the backseat of the town car. 

“So,” Clarke drawls as soon as they step into his apartment, “do I get, like...a tour or something?”  
  
“It’s not that big of a place.”   
  
“You didn’t get a tour of our house and you didn’t really need it, so. I feel like this evens it out a little bit.”

They get down the hallway before they start making out again. 

And they do get changed eventually. 

So they can FaceTime Madi. 

Who spends fifteen seconds straight shouting about how good they look. 

And Bellamy gets Clarke flowers. 

* * *

“This can’t possibly be normal,” Miller shouts, bent awkwardly over the edge of the roulette table while Clarke leans back against Bellamy’s chest. He’s got an arm around her waist, mostly because he can’t fathom another place for it, his chin hooked over her shoulder. 

It’s easier to trail kisses along the side of her neck that way. 

“What is unnormal about good luck?” Clarke asks. 

“That’s not a word.”  
  
“Isn’t it?”   
  
“He didn’t finish college either,” Bellamy mutters, drawing a laugh out of Clarke that makes her body shake against his. That’s a problem. A good problem, but one all the same. He hasn’t found any dark corners or deserted hallways yet. 

And Monroe is definitely sending less-than-covert photos to Octavia. 

“I keep winning, that’s all,” Clarke shrugs. “I guess I’m just better at this game than you are.”  
  
“Oh, now it’s talent, is it?” Bellamy laughs. “I thought it was luck.”

“Little bit of both, I guess.”

He clicks his tongue, ignoring the cameras that have moved their direction and they’ve got to do some team things soon. He’s not all that inclined to move. For several reasons, but mostly because the dress really is blue and really is good and maybe he should send Harper flowers at some point too. 

Just for like...helping. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Miler grumbles. “A little bit of both, my ass. This is some weird flirting thing you guys are doing and like—”  
  
“—I’m sorry, is you losing money that goes to charity, somehow a bad thing?” Bellamy cuts in.

“Tell your girlfriend she looks pretty!”  
  
“I’ve done that.”   
  
“Eh,” Clarke objects, and it takes him a moment to realize what, exactly, Miller has said. And what the issue is. Clarke twists, a hand tugging on the front of his tux. “Have you, though?”   
  
“Have I not?”   
  
“Not in so many words.”   
  
“Do I have to be here for this?” Miller complains. “Because Octavia was getting real demanding with the text updates—”   
  
“—Go talk to my sister, Miller,” Bellamy says, not taking his eyes away from Clarke. Or the very exact curve to the end of her lips. 

Bellamy waits until he can’t see the top of Miller’s head in the crowd around them and it is pretty crowded, which is probably a good thing. For, like charity and kids and the New York Rangers franchise as a whole. 

“You look ridiculously good.”  
  
Clarke blinks. Several times. Her eyebrows shift and her eyes widen just a bit, surprise mixing in with something a little sharper and a little darker and Bellamy is somehow still talking. 

“Like,” he continues, “I can’t really even think good.”  
  
“Is that why you keep losing in roulette?”   
  
“I wouldn’t be able to play any of the card games either. Although,” Bellamy adds when Clarke’s head falls to his chest, “I have been scoring a lot, so—”   
  
“—That’s not even clever.”   
  
“What isn’t?”   
  
Her hair threatens to fall out of the elaborate twist its in when she looks up at him, more blue and blush and the lack of dark corners is really starting to become a problem. The roulette guy is definitely talking to them. 

That can’t possibly be the right term. 

“Scoring?” Clarke laughs. “As a—”  
  
“—No, no, no, that was literal. I’m on a streak, you know.”   
  
“It’s all I’ve heard about in the last couple of days, actually.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah,” she nods. “And I might have—you know, I can neither confirm nor deny that there was some shouting at The Dropship when I went to go watch the game a couple days ago.”   
  
The roulette guy might be coughing now. 

Pointedly. 

“Oh, be more specific,” Bellamy mutters, and he doesn’t think he can get fined for public indecency at his own team’s charity event. 

He’s at least seventy-two percent certain. That’s a passing grade. 

Kind of. 

Clarke takes a shaky breath, the tip of her tongue finding the inside of her cheek. “There may have been jumping involved. Flailing arms. I said shouting already, didn't I?”  
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“Monty and Jasper thought they were funny.”   
  
“About?”   
  
She leans back, which is unfair in normal circumstances but absolutely cheating in that dress, and none of the oxygen Bellamy inhales makes it to his brain. He feels a little dizzy. And warm. 

It doesn’t have anything to do with the people around them.

Or how many photos he inevitably still has to pose for. 

“You’ll see,” Clarke says. “Probably.”

“Probably.”  
  
“Something about talent and luck, right?”   
  
“Ma’am,” roulette guy says, and Clarke actually flinches. Like she forgot about the roulette. Bellamy grins. And kisses the top of her hair. “You have to pick a number.”   
  
“Oh, right, right, right, that’s how this game works, isn’t it?”   
  
“It is, in fact.”   
  
“Ten.”   
  
Bellamy’s throat tightens. His tongue feels far too big for his mouth. And he knows he practically yanks his next inhale through his nose, fingers going greedy around Clarke’s waist because she’d turned again at some point. 

“That’s not fair.”  
  
“What?” Clarke asks, a picture of innocence and eyelashes that are definitely longer than he remembered them being a few weeks ago. 

It’s only been a few weeks. 

His brain does not care. 

His brain is still letting Miller’s words ricochet off every corner of it, lighting up like a pinball machine and—“Black ten,” roulette guy says, Clarke’s arms flying into the air and a cry of victory flying out of her and someone snaps a camera somewhere nearby. 

“Saying we won lacks some subtlety, doesn’t it?” she asks, pulling the chips back towards her. 

Bellamy shakes his head. “There’s no such thing as subtlety on this team. Or at home.”

As if on cue, his phone buzzes in his back pocket — probably because Miller is texting Octavia or Monroe is texting Octavia and that means Octavia is texting all of Arkadia and Clarke’s heels are tall enough she doesn’t have to press on her toes to kiss his cheek. 

It earns them another shutter snap. 

“Keep that in mind later,” she mutters. 

* * *

Later feels like it takes ten-thousand years to arrive. 

Give or take. 

Bellamy is admittedly far too impatient, shaking hands and posing for photos with a forced smile that eventually leads several teammates to burst into laughter and Fox, the Rangers PR lead, to come up and remind him that “you are on team time right now.”

He poses for at least a dozen photos after that. 

But then later is now and this moment and Clarke rests her hand on his knee in the back seat of a different town car. “You’re tapping incessantly,” she murmurs. 

He sighs, grimacing while trying to loosen his tie without inadvertently choking himself. It doesn’t really work. Although it does lead to Clarke’s fingers pushing his out of the way and her hands are so much smaller than his and there aren’t any calluses from hockey gloves and—

“You want to go for the scandalizing hat trick?” Bellamy mutters. She laughs, mouthing lightly at the edge of his chin and just under his ear. “That’s not helping your cause, you know.”

“Stop squirming around so much.”  
  
“I thought you were supposed to have steady hands.”   
  
“You realize anesthesia is a thing, yes?”   
  
“From making out to macabre in two seconds flat.”   
  
“I wasn’t suggesting we kill you.”   
  
“I don’t think anesthesia kills people.”   
  
Clarke smiles against his neck, nosing at the skin there when she unbuttons his collar and it can’t be healthy for him to be this warm all the time. “You really don’t give yourself enough credit for being smart.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s definitely what I want you to get out of this conversation.”

The car stops. 

It takes them both a moment to realize it. 

Plus another pointed cough. 

“Thanks,” Clarke says as they clamor onto the sidewalk, like that’s something she has to do or is used to doing and the thought leaves Bellamy a little awed. In the seemingly inherent goodness of Clarke Griffin. 

His hand finds hers before they take a step, twisting fingers and the swipe of his thumb across the inside of her wrist. She smiles at him. 

And he drops his keys in front of his door that time. 

“What’s that saying?” Clarke asks, “time is a flat circle or something?”  
  
“You’re the one who was announcing yourself queen of clichés.”

“Oh, God, I have never once said that. Who would call themselves that? What a shitty name.”  
  
“Can we talk about the validity of nicknames later, please. Because—”   
  
“—Listen, if you can still think the word validity right now, we’ve got problems.”   
  
“I really like your dress.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“That’s not something you have to double check on,” Bellamy says, more words with deeper meanings and absolute guarantees and he kisses her quick before he picks his keys off the floor. “And I like you too.”   
  
Clarke nods. A little jerky. A little anxious in a nervous and excited sort of way that makes Bellamy’s heart sputter and his heart jump into his throat and probably some joke about a point-scoring streak. 

Just really to drive the point home. 

He spends at least thirty seconds trying to work the zipper on her dress, barely waiting for the door to slam behind him before he starts tugging, but then Clarke is taking a step back and his stomach threatens to fall through the floor. 

That would probably be jarring for the people who live underneath him. 

“What’s the—” he starts, but Clarke presses her lips together and takes another step. 

“Just wait one sec.”

Bellamy’s knees lock, weight in his heels and several internal organs moving to places they should not be. He counts to ten. And back down. Then back up. Counts to twenty just to switch things up, lets his fingers flutter against his side and hopes every single thing he’s feeling isn't being broadcast in surround sound. 

“Ok. Back.”

He’d started staring at his feet at some point — not bothering to take his shoes off yet, which very quickly seems like the biggest mistake in the world because Clarke is standing in front of him. 

With her hair down. 

And a t-shirt on. 

Just a t-shirt. 

A blue one. With the number ten on her back. Under his name. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, Clarke’s laugh more than a little shaky when it rattles out of her. Bellamy’s in her space in four, quick strides, hands on her hips and mouth on hers and he’s sure eventually he’ll be more worried about the strain they keep putting on her spine. It arches. Towards him. 

“Just—” _Kiss_. “Try—” _Gasp_. “Not—” _Curse_. “To think about how I got this shirt.”  
  
Bellamy nips at the shell of her ear. “Do not talk to me about anyone else except you and this shirt right now.”   
  
“That makes it sound like you think the shirt is cognizant.”   
  
“Clarke.”   
  
“Mhmmm.”   
  
“We need to move.”

“Mhmmm.”

He gets his shoes off. Kicks them, really — hitting a baseboard and the side of the door in the process, and it isn’t easy to try and get his belt off while also mapping every inch of Clarke’s body, but sacrifices have to be made and Bellamy is just as greedy as ever. He’ll blame the shirt anyway. 

It’s hours later, tangled blankets and Clarke’s fingers tracing nonsensical patterns in his hair. Bellamy’s head is on her stomach, feeling every one of her breaths like it’s some weird metronome he’d like to time everything else in his life up to and, if asked, he’ll say that’s the exact reason for what he says next. 

Or the shirt. 

Seriously the shirt. 

“What did you think—” he says slowly, “about, uh—what Miller was saying before?”  
  
“Are you seriously talking to me about Nathan Miller right now? While you’re naked?”   
  
“Does the second one impact the first?”   
  
“I thought we weren't talking about other people,” Clarke reasons. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bellamy stammers. Her fingers still. “I just—well, you didn’t say he was wrong.”  
  
“I don’t follow.”   
  
“Is that a compliment?”   
  
“What the hell are you talking about?”

He takes a deep breath — not really nervous, but hope is still a kind of foreign feeling and he doesn’t want to jinx it. Clarke lifts her eyebrows when Bellamy looks at her. Her hair is everywhere. “Miller used labels,” Bellamy says. “When we were playing roulette.”  
  
“Miller was losing at roulette.”   
  
“Yeah, well we were winning.”   
  
“Subtle.”   
  
“We’ve been over this already.”   
  
Clarke laughs, lower lip sticking out when she nods. “Yeah, we have. Are you asking me to be your girlfriend? While you’re naked?”   
  
“You’re really harping on the naked thing.”   
  
“It’s also distracting, that’s why.”   
  
“Is it just?”   
  
“Oh don’t be an idiot,” she grumbles, swatting at his shoulder. Bellamy grins, dragging his mouth across her stomach and the jut of her hip and Clarke’s breath isn’t quite as even anymore. “You are not very good at actually asking questions, you know.”   
  
“All that media training.”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
He freezes, glancing up to find her looking like a variety of literary cats. And maybe something a little more mythical. His pillow is going to sound like raspberries. 

“Yeah,” Clarke repeats. “I would have thought that was kind of obvious with the dates and the coming here and the pictures, but—”  
  
Whatever else she’s about to say gets lost in kisses and hands and more kisses and they knock the blankets off his bed completely. 

* * *

Clarke wears the shirt when she leaves. 

Bellamy’s pillow smells like raspberries for the next week. 

* * *

**Madi Griffin, 7:45 p.m.:** INCHES! I WAS INCHES AWAY TODAY.

**Bellamy Blake, 7:52 p.m.:** Don’t you have homework?   
**  
Madi Griffin, 7:52 p.m.:** HOW DID YOU EVEN HIT THAT WINDOW? IT’S IMPOSSIBLE. 

**Bellamy Blake, 7:54 p.m.:** I mean, I did it. So.   
Did your mom tell you to make sure you get your stick under it?

**Madi Griffin, 7:55 p.m.:** I know that. 

**Bellamy Blake, 7:56 p.m.:** The inches would say otherwise.   
You’ve got to work on your angles, that’s all. And you’re on the top power play unit now. 

**Madi Griffin, 7:58 p.m.:** That’s not the point!

**Bellamy Blake, 8:00 p.m.:** No? 

**Madi Griffin, 8:00 p.m.:** No. I want to hit it. 

**Bellamy Blake, 8:03 p.m.:** To brag. 

**Madi Griffin, 8:04 p.m.:** To do it.

**Bellamy Blake, 8:04 p.m.:** Alright. Are you actually done with your homework?

**Madi Griffin, 8:06 p.m.:** Yeah, why?

**Bellamy Blake, 8:07 p.m.:** Let’s practice angles. 

**Madi Griffin, 8:08 p.m.:** Right now?   
**  
Bellamy Blake, 8:10 p.m.:** Right now. 

He nearly breaks his TV flipping the puck on his stick blade. It’s definitely worth it. 

* * *

He gets into a fight. 

It’s not all that surprising. People try to goad him into dropping gloves all the time. Even with the scoring streak — although that got snapped two games after Casino Night — and the Rangers are in the first Wild Card spot now, because there’s something about a reputation and it proceeding Bellamy and everything kind of goes red as soon as he realizes what’s happening. 

They’re playing the Penguins, another road trip midway through March with a looming FaceTime phone call as soon as they get on the bus because they’ve got to be in Columbus the next day, It’s quick, the hit, and Bellamy’s fought this Penguins winger before. 

Roan. 

His name is Roan. 

He’s got his own short-list of transgressions, misconducts and suspensions and he leaves his skates when his shoulder slams into Miller’s back. 

And Miller slams directly into the boards. 

Whitesell — the other winger on Bellamy and Miller’s line roars, curses and exclamations and Miller isn’t getting up. Bellamy can hear him, not-so-soft groans and blood on the bridge of his nose where his visor dug into the skin. 

“Fuck you, you fucking bastard,” Whitesell shouts, “C’mon—you want to hit someone? Come hit me, then!”  
  
Roan doesn’t flinch, hardly even acknowledges Whitesell because it’s an empty threat and everyone in that arena knows it. Bellamy glances at Miller once more before he moves, pushing off his right skate blade and shaking off his gloves and the first hit of his fist lands against Roan’s jaw sends a shockwave of pain all the way up to his elbow. 

“Shit,” Bellamy hisses. “Sometimes I forget you’re made of fucking marble.”

Roan laughs. There’s no humor to the sound — just something that feels a bit like a plan and a set up. “Can’t change those spots, can you, Blake? Try to play like you’re some scoring threat now? Nah, just a goon. As always.”  
  
“Is that supposed to be clever? Fuck you.”   
  
“Your guy should have known where he was standing.”   
  
“He was three feet away from the fucking boards.”   
  
“Eh,” Roan shrugs before pulling back and slamming his left hand just above Bellamy’s ear. It’s more pain, dots exploding in front of his eyes and he’s suddenly a little wobbly on his skates. Roan yanks on the front of his jersey when he doesn’t respond immediately, yanking him forward and landing another punch, this time on the edge of his jaw. 

The refs are trying to get them to move, more hands and a distinct lack of balance. Bellamy’s arms are like windmills, hoping he lands on something, even if he doesn’t care exactly what it is, but then there’s another fist and a rush of heat that is—  
  
“Enough, enough,” the ref yells, managing to get in between them. Bellamy is bleeding. Miller still hasn’t gotten back to his feet. “You assholes want to keep trying to kill each other? Fine. Do it off the fucking ice.”

“I think we’d get arrested for that,” Roan quips.   
  
Bellamy tries to lunge again, a fire that feels like it’s inching up his spine and taking over every cognizant thought he’s ever had. His eye might be swelling.   
  
“I swear to God I’ll get you guys for five games,” the ref continues. “Shut the fuck up and get out of here. Now.”   
  
They both get majors and the game is over, at least for them. Although it doesn’t seem to matter when the Rangers lose and Miller’s got to go through concussion protocol and Bellamy ignores the several dozen text messages on his phone. 

He had to get stitches anyway. 

Until. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the table in the Penguins training room, sock-covered feet and enough bandages on his face that it makes it difficult to answer the phone. His phone is ringing. And Clarke is sitting in the kitchen. 

Her jaw goes slack as soon as she sees him, a gasp that’s loud enough he probably wouldn’t need the phone to hear it. “Holy shit,” Clarke whispers. “That’s—you look like shit.”  
  
“Thanks, Princess.”   
  
“C’mon that’s...you don’t get to be sarcastic.”   
  
“Am I being sarcastic?”   
  
Clarke runs a hand over her face, the pads of her fingers pressing into her cheek and Bellamy already felt like an asshole. He’s a little surprised he hasn’t just fallen over now. He’s still sitting down. “What happened?” she asks. “Did that—did that guy say something?”   
  
“Roan?”   
  
“I don’t know his name. Murphy just kept calling him shit head.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s about right.”   
  
“Not an answer.”

“Were you watching the game with Murphy?”  
  
“Bellamy,” Clarke cries, and he doesn’t think he imagines the crack in her voice. His tongue does that thing again. She stands up quickly, nearly knocking the chair over in the process and the movement gives him a little whiplash, but no one made him do concussion protocol. 

Maybe they should have.   
  
Maybe that’s just Clarke. 

“I just—” she huffs. “I knew...I mean I thought I knew what was going to happen and everything you’d said, but he just kept hitting you and it lasted so long and then you were bleeding and did you need stitches?”  
  
“Four.”   
  
“Shit.”

“Clarke, it’s—”  
  
“—If you tell me it’s fine right now I will walk to Pittsburgh and kick you. I swear to God.”   
  
“Noted.”

She exhales again, a quick sniffle that probably isn’t supposed to happen. “He kept hitting you. And is Miller ok?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Bellamy admits. “Probably concussed. He wasn’t ready for that hit at all.”

“God. That’s—that is so fucked up. This is such a fucked-up sport and—”

“—I’m sorry.”  
  
Clarke stops moving. Her shoulders roll. Her head tilts. And Bellamy’s smile is lackluster at best. “For all of it,” he continues, “for falling back into this and I mean it’s exactly what I’ve always been and what I’ve always done, but Roan hit Miller and it was like something snapped and I couldn’t and I’m—Madi didn’t see, did she?”   
  
“No, she was at practice still.”   
  
“Ok, good. That’s...that’s good. I—shit I am so sorry Clarke.”   
  
“You don’t have anything to apologize to me for.”

He’s glad there’s no one else in that room. Bellamy can’t imagine what he looks like, surprise mixing in with...well, more surprise and Clarke doesn’t blink. “I don’t understand.”  
  
“Are you apologizing to me?”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“For hitting the dick?”   
  
“Phrase that better, babe.”

Clarke’s laugh is a little watery, smile turning a bit incredulous. She’s smiling at him. He didn’t expect that. “Oh my God, you’re really the world’s biggest idiot. Murphy was right.”  
  
“About what?”   
  
“He said you were ignoring the text messages because you felt bad and I was—I texted you just...an embarrassing number of times. Even before you got off the ice. Which he was very quick to point out was pointless.”   
  
“I would have seen them eventually.”   
  
“Which is what I told him.”   
  
Bellamy hums, confusion continuing to rattle around his brain. 

“I’m not mad at you for punching Roan the shit head,” Clarke says. “That’s—I don’t know anything and I know that was a dirty hit.”  
  
“You know a lot of things.”   
  
“Can I make my point?” Bellamy’s lips twitch. It hurts his cheek. “The point,” Clarke says, leaning forward like she’ll fall through the phone, “is that I get why you did it. I threw most of the pillows in my living room. And my remote. More than once, honestly. It was ridiculous.” 

She takes a deep breath, tugging her hair over her shoulders. The raspberry scent is long gone from his pillows, but Bellamy swears he can smell it in the training room of the PPG Paints Arena. 

“I wasn’t mad at you for the fight,” Clarke whispers. “I was worried. Terrified, even. Of—of what would happen to you and if you’d be ok and...you’re ok, right?”  
  
Any of the tension that has taken up residence in between Bellamy’s shoulder blades over the course of the last forty-two minutes disappears. 

Suddenly. And completely.

“Now,” he says. 

“God, that’s lame.”  
  
“Yeah, it is.”   
  
“I’m not super into the fighting,” Clarke adds. “But I get why it happened. And it doesn’t change anything. Doesn't mean you’re not—the ridiculously good guy I know you are.”   
  
“Ridiculous, huh?”   
  
“Seriously, I will kick you.”   
  
“I’m sorry you were worried.”   
  
“Don’t be. I just—I am in on this thing. With you. And I know that means some bruises and four stitches and—was that enough, though?”   
  
“They do have doctors here, Clarke.”   
  
She clicks her tongue. “Whatever. Answer your text messages. Because I’d like to be worried. About you. If that’s cool.”   
  
Bellamy ignores the ache in the general area of his eye when his smile threatens to take up most of the space on his face. “Yeah,” he nods. “That’s cool with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casino Night is a real thing the Rangers do and it is my favorite night of the season, hands down. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) where I'm consistently losing my mind over hockey player's thighs and starting to hoard Bellarke fic as well.


	10. Chapter 10

“Could we not get a better cake flavor?”  
  
“Other than chocolate?” Harper asks incredulously, not bothering to glance at the phone because she’s also trying to carry the cake several dozen feet across The Dropship. “Also, this is not your cake. You don’t get an opinion on flavor.”   
  
Bellamy shrugs. He’s slumped in the corner of his coach, legs stretched out across the coffee table in front of him, which has annoyed Miller to no end over the last fifteen minutes, but if the sounds from the kitchen are any indication Miller is also struggling with the champagne bottle, so Bellamy feels like he’s come out on top in this situation. 

A celebratory one. 

Two-fold. 

Because it’s April and the Rangers have made the playoffs, a push _The Post_ called “unexpected, if not a little incredible,” two days ago, which Clarke thought was “pretty goddamn insulting, actually.” And that was more than enough to distract Bellamy when _The Post_ also used his name as part of a headline pun yesterday. 

Ringing the Bell doesn’t even make sense. 

There are no bells in hockey. 

Horns, maybe. No bells. 

He’s not worried about headlines. He’s got a first-round series to get ready for and a celebration to celebrate and the light in The Dropship keeps reflecting off Harper’s ring. 

That’s the other part of the celebration. 

“You have a problem with chocolate, Bell?” Monty asks when Harper makes it to the table. There’s not much room for the cake. What with the table being covered with half-empty glasses and more than one bottle and—

Miller lets out a celebratory cry from the kitchen. 

“I think that means we’ve got champagne,” Bellamy mutters. 

“It does,” Miller yells. He brings the bottle with him when he comes back into the living room, a quick smile to the phone. They’re not really supposed to be drinking.

Bellamy is willing to ignore the rules for the moment. 

And for the celebration. 

He’s also pretty sure he was closest on the bet. So, he’s won something like twenty-two dollars and that deserves the twenty-dollar champagne he found at the liquor store up the block. 

“What cake flavor are we talking over there?” Miller asks, shoving a glass towards Bellamy’s face before he drops onto the couch. And almost takes out Bellamy’s legs in the process. 

“Shit,” Bellamy hisses. “Will you relax?”  
  
“There is no relaxing in a celebration,” Jasper argues loudly, before downing the rest of a drink that Bellamy can only assume is not his. Mostly because Emori swats at his back as soon as he does it, Murphy’s almost amused expression a pretty solid clue that every single one of them is pretty drunk. 

And Clarke is laughing. 

She glances towards Bellamy, tugging the phone out of Harper’s hands without a word. “What do you have against chocolate cake? Also—for what it’s worth, this is the only one I could find on such short notice.”

“You got the cake?” Bellamy asks.   
  
“I am an excellent cake picker.”   
  
“That’s a pretty lame title,” Murphy chides. “And did you think our former socialite queen—”   
  
“—Oh my God, fuck you,” Clarke hisses. 

Emori starts swatting Murphy instead. Jasper’s trying to find another glass with alcohol still in, Harper giving up on even attempting to cut the cake and just distributing forks to everyone in a five-foot radius. Miller keep trying to knock Bellamy’s feet off the coffee table. 

“All I’m saying,” Murphy continues, “is that someone who had genuine opinions on fondant—”  
  
“—That’s not weird,” Clarke yells. “Fondant is stupid. Yeah, it looks good, but you know all those big-time events that have big-time cakes—” 

Jasper snickers. 

“Say big-time cakes again,” Miller mumbles over the top of his cup. It’s plastic. They had to buy cups too. Bellamy had almost fifty text messages when they got out of practice. 

Clarke huffs, body moving with the force of it, but that only leads Bellamy to pressing his lips together, so he won't laugh too loudly. It doesn’t really work. 

“Big time cakes,” Clarke says slowly, emphasizing every letter in every word until it is easily the most ridiculous thing Bellamy has ever heard. And Miller kept yelling “ringing the Bell,” during the media scrum a few hours earlier. 

“Fondant is expensive anyway,” Harper reasons. “So no one is getting fondant. And Clarke got the cake because she was already on Tidewater, which is where the one bakery in Arkadia is. It made sense. Chocolate is a good choice and we trust her taste.”

“Her taste in cakes,” Murphy adds. 

Emori pinches his arm that time. 

“Should we toast to big-time cakes?” Jasper aks. “That seems like a toastable string of words, doesn’t it?”  
  
“You would toast anything at this point,” Bellamy points out.

“Lies. I would not toast bread. Or an English muffin. Or even a bagel. Well, no—maybe a bagel. If you brought it from New York.”  
  
“You want to me to ship you bagels?”   
  
“Yes and then I’ll send you croissants. I’ll send Octavia croissants. She won’t shut up about the goddamn croissants.”   
  
“Maybe we should stage some kind of intervention for that,” Harper mumbles. 

“But,” Jasper continues pointedly, “I will only ship and or toast the previously discussed bagels after I have eaten my fill of big-time cake and then soundly beaten you all in a battle royale for best-man duties.”  
  
“If this is the speech you’re giving I’m not sure the rest of us have much to worry about.”   
  
“Also, isn’t it kind of quick to start doling out wedding-day duties?” Murphy asks. 

Bellamy widens his eyes. “Did you just word the dole?”  
  
“Some of us went to college, asshole.”   
  
“You know if things shake out the way they should—”   
  
“—Is no one going to make fun of shake out?” Clarke cries. He winks at her. He tries. She bites her lower lip. 

Harper and Monty have put a pretty sizable dent in their cake already. 

“That’s a real phrase,” Bellamy argues. Clarke doesn’t look convinced. She’s also a little flushed, though, and he’s going to assume that’s because of him and the two-fold celebration and not because of anything even remotely related to alcohol. 

“Sure it is.”

“We could play the conference finals in D.C.”  
  
“I know that.”   
  
“Do you just?”   
  
“Do you think I’ve lost my eyes at some point?” Clarke quips, Bellamy’s stomach jumping and that’s become a fairly pleasant and consistent thing. “I know how to read a bracket. And no jinx or anything.”

“No jinx,” he repeats. “Tell me more about your fondant opinions.”  
  
“No, no, no,” Monty exclaims. “We’re not doing this now. This is our romance moment. We don’t need you guys making eyes and—”   
  
“—Oh God, seriously,” Miller agrees. 

Bellamy’s jaw drops. 

Murphy turns his head, forehead pressed into the back of Clarke’s shoulder to try and mask his laugh, but his whole body is shaking and he grunts when she elbows him in the chest. 

“No one is getting fondant-covered cake at this wedding,” Harper announces. “This inevitably very romantic wedding that will have a questionably large bridal party and you all will wear whatever we tell you to wear without any kind of—shit, what did you just call it, Jasper?”  
  
“A battle royale,” he grins. “Which, honestly I think I could win.”   
  
“You realize Blake literally punches people for a living?” Murphy quips. 

Bellamy flips him off. “That hasn’t happened in weeks. And the last time was because of—”  
  
“—Roan the shit head?” Clarke suggests.

“Exactly.”  
  
“What did I just say about the flirting?” Monty growls.   
  
“We’ve got to talk about your flirting if that’s what you thought it was.”   
  
“Plus,” Miller adds, and his cup is empty, “if anything, Bell was flirting with me during that fight. Defending my honor and all that.”

Bellamy scoffs, another eye roll, and there wasn’t really any tension — a theme for the last few weeks and, he hopes, the next few because it’s been awhile since playoffs and possible expectations and he’d told _The Athletic_ he thought the Rangers could make a run. 

He does. 

At least back to the Eastern Conference Finals.   
  
Maybe the Cup Finals. 

He hopes. Still. Perpetually. 

“That’s absolutely what it was,” Bellamy agrees. 

Miller’s head drops to his shoulder. “See, I knew it. Sorry to let you down like this, Griff.”  
  
“Any more headaches?” she asks. 

“Nah, all good. Ready to decimate the entire Philadelphia Flyers franchise.”  
  
“Single-handedly?” Jasper asks. “Because I’ve got good money on you guys winning in five and I don’t know if you can do that on your own.”   
  
“Maybe we’ll let Bell score a couple of goals.”   
  
“Wow, generous,” Bellamy drawls. 

Miller shrugs. It leaves his shoulder bumping Bellamy’s arm when he doesn’t lift his head, Clarke’s smile obvious even when the phone changes hands so she can eat some more cake. “Can’t let that potential go to waste,” Miller says. “Plus, if you don’t score how you going to keep impressing the girl and the kid?”  
  
“Oh call me girl again, please,” Clarke challenges. 

Jasper refills her drink. “Seriously. Win in five or I riot. And that’ll probably mess with Harper’s wedding plans.”  
  
“You’ve got more wedding plans than I do,” Harper objects. 

“That’s disappointing.”  
  
“You’re insane,” Monty mutters, before offering his glass for the toast they’ve never given and maybe Harper’s ring is just drawing all the light in the bar to it. To prove a point, or something. “And,” he continues, “I am hereby announcing that none of you won the bet—”   
  
“—But I bought the champagne,” Bellamy interrupts.

“You are a professional hockey player! Can I finish my toast now?” Bellamy hums, taking a sip of his drink. It tastes like twenty dollars. “My point is that while all of you were busy moving money around like a bunch of goddamn degenerates—”  
  
“—This seriously is not romantic,” Murphy mumbles. 

Monty growls. “Shut up, shut up, shut up. The toast! Is that while you were all concerned with when this was going to happen, I was only worried that it would and now it has and I love Harper a lot. So you guys can all wear cummerbunds to our wedding because we make the rules and the rules are romantic proposals, and all of us celebrating with carefully curated chocolate cake before watching the end of Philadelphia as we know it and then, you know, living happily ever after. The end.”  
  
None of them say anything. 

Probably because Monty is a little out of breath. 

And then. 

“The end,” Murphy repeats, twisting around Clarke to hold his glass out. The rest of them follow suit, a slightly weird angle because whoever is holding the phone is definitely holding it from above, but Bellamy’s eyes keep drifting back towards Clarke and her smile and Miller grabs the champagne bottle off the coffee table. 

“It might not have been your most inspirational work, Green,” Harper laughs. She kisses him on the cheek anyway, something like joy working its way from Arkadia into Bellamy’s living room. “And no one is making you guys wear cummerbunds, those are ugly. How do we say this, then? To the end?”  
  
Bellamy nods. “To the end.”

“To the end.”

They drink the rest of the twenty-dollar champagne and then several glasses of water because “we’ve still got to skate tomorrow,” and the cake in Arkadia doesn’t last very long against the force six plastic forks and Bellamy is sure someone’s phone is going to die soon, but then Clarke’s the only face he can see in the frame and—  
  
“Can I talk to you for a second?” she asks softly. 

Bellamy nods, trying to get off the couch without it making any noise. Murphy is asleep. That probably won’t help him skate tomorrow. 

He doesn’t bother closing his bedroom door, sinking onto the edge of his bed while Clarke moves to a slightly quieter corner of the bar. There’s still music in the background and the hint of a smile on her face, enough to silence some of the nerves inching up the back of Bellamy’s spine. 

“You ok?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Clarke says. “I, um—have you talked to Indra recently?”   
  
It doesn’t take him long to realize what that question means. It’s probably because there’s not really much alcohol in twenty-dollar champagne. “Oh shit,” Bellamy breathes. “Really?”   
  
“I didn’t actually say anything yet.”   
  
“So say something.”

Clarke clicks her tongue, but that only means he can see the tip of her tongue flash between her teeth. “Indra’s been talking to some Team USA people. Madi’s still young, so they don’t want to get too far ahead of themselves, but—”  
  
“—But this Indra?”   
  
“Exactly,” Clarke says. “She asked if she could send some film to people in Lake Placid? Like New York.”   
  
“Yeah, they do a lot of stuff at the Olympic rink there.”   
  
“Oh, that makes sense actually. I don’t—she didn’t really explain the reasoning behind it, just that Madi is good enough to be there.”   
  
“Those things don’t usually happen until fourteen-plus, though.”   
  
Clarke hums, lips pressed together tightly. “Yeah, she mentioned that too. But that was just the stuff on the road. I guess—well, there’s something in Baltimore for younger kids. Eleven to thirteen.”   
  
“Madi would destroy eleven-year-olds.”   
  
“Tell her that the next time you talk to her.”   
  
“We’ve got a practice phone call before we leave for Philly. Word has it she hit the window the other day, just not the crack.”

“And shouted about it to anyone who would listen,” Clarke grins. “Do you have time to do that, though? With everything going on?”  
  
Bellamy nods again. “It’s fine.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah,” he promises. “What do you think about Baltimore?”   
  
“I have no idea,” Clarke shrugs. “I mean—Indra thinks it’s the next logical step. And her season here would be over. Tryouts aren’t until July, so...off-season.”   
  
It’s not a question. It’s one word. In statement form. But Bellamy’s next inhale is a little sharper than usual and his spine does not seem all that interested in remaining a functioning part of his body. He slumps, closer to the phone — like that’ll bring him closer to Arkadia or closer to Clarke and there are more words sitting on the tip of his tongue. 

They’re almost reasonable now. 

Time-wise and everything. 

If they don’t at least get to the Eastern Conference Finals he’s going to be really disappointed. 

“She’s been invited,” Clarke says. “Which is—”  
  
“—A really big deal,” Bellamy finishes, snapping back up when the pride practically explodes out of his chest.

“So I’ve been reliably informed. And you’re right. She’d totally wreck a bunch of eleven-year-olds, plus she’d have fun, I know that.”  
  
“So what’s the problem?”   
  
“There isn’t one.” Bellamy tugs a breath through his teeth, realization replacing the pride and Clarke scrunches her nose. “Don't do that,” she mumbles. 

“You don’t have to worry.”  
  
“Pot and kettle.”   
  
‘Seriously, a wealth of clichés.”

“I just—” Clarke starts, letting her head fall back and forth. “I wanted to...tell you, I guess. And maybe get your opinion and—”  
  
“You can do that.”   
  
“I know. That’s why I am. So?”   
  
“Madi would love it,” Bellamy says. “She’d score forty-thousand goals at least. And if there’s already been an invitation, then people are also already impressed, which is a big thing. Indra doesn’t give empty compliments or plan for anyone.”   
  
“We’re a special case then?”   
  
“Decidedly so.”   
  
She laughs, leaning further into the wall, and that only makes her smile obvious and her eyes a little lighter and if Bellamy could get anything to Arkadia he would get himself there. So he could brush that one strand of hair away from Clarke’s forehead. 

Seriously, screw bagels. 

“It’s going to be ok,” he says. “And, if you think about it—now you’ve got two serious goal-scoring threats to brag about and who else can say that, really?”  
  
"There are a lot of brothers in the NHL, right?”   
  
“Ha ha ha.”   
  
“I’m the funniest person you know, there’s no reason to tell me.”   
  
“That’s exactly why I’m not saying that, for sure.”   
  
Clarke makes a face and Bellamy’s stomach makes another move that normal stomachs should not be capable of. “I’ll talk to Madi about it,” she says. “And how does playoff-girlfriend work, then? Are there more superstitions I should be aware of? There’s a beard thing right?”   
  
“I don’t shave very often during the season.”   
  
“Yeah, but now it’s like...a thing?”   
  
“A thing,” Bellamy agrees. “Maybe a little more bouncing the puck on my stick before games.”   
  
“You don’t have anything to be nervous about.”   
  
“Did I say that?”   
  
Clarke scowls. “You didn’t have to. This is—it’s going to be good, Bell. I know it.   
  
“Wear your shirt when we play, ok?”   
  
“Superstitious weirdo.”   
  
“Yeah, but you’re into it,” he mutters, and he will have to research new gods to thank when he doesn’t say what he actually wants to. 

“Something like that. I’ll talk to you later?”  
  
“Absolutely.”   
  
“Ok. And don’t let Miller sleep on your couch much longer. That’s going to fuck with his neck and then how will he find you on the power play?”   
  
Bellamy nods, another poorly executed wink, but he spends the next twenty-seven minutes trying to figure out how he didn’t just shout how much he loves Clarke at the phone, so he’s got other things on his mind. 

* * *

They beat the Flyers in six. 

Jasper sends fourteen consecutive messages in the group chat. 

He lost twelve dollars. 

* * *

**Madi Griffin, 12:21 p.m.:** DO YOU GET TO CHOOSE YOUR NUMBER IN BALTIMORE?

**Bellamy Blake, 12:24 p.m.:** Like when you get into the city?

**Madi Griffin, 12:25 p.m.:** B

E

L

L

A

M

Y

**Bellamy Blake, 12:27 p.m.:** I don’t know. I never went to fancy hockey camp in Baltimore when I was a kid 

**Madi Griffin, 12:28 p.m.:** You knew????

**Bellamy Blake, 12:29 p.m.:** I knew. Congrats kid. 

What number are you thinking about? 

**Bellamy Blake, 12:32 p.m.:** Madi? 

There’s a lot of numbers. I’m not going to guess. 

**Clarke Griffin, 12:41 p.m.:** She wants to wear your number and she’s nervous to ask. 

**Bellamy Blake, 12:47 p.m.:** I’m going to be disappointed if you don’t wear ten. 

**Madi Griffin, 12:52 p.m.:** Yeah?

**Bellamy Blake, 12:53 p.m.:** All yours. 

* * *

It would be wrong to suggest that the second round of the NHL playoffs is something almost resembling easy, but the Rangers sweep and it may be the closest thing to perfect Bellamy has ever experienced on the ice. 

He scores twice in the first game. 

And his line is basically getting second-line type of minutes, no fights, and quick puck movement and Miller keeps laughing when he reminds Bellamy that he played well enough to “actually warrant the back page of _The Post_! That’s like a hockey unicorn moment.”   
  
“It’s not your best cliché,” Bellamy says. 

“Because it’s not a cliché, it’s a fact. Also, if you try and tell your girlfriend that I am coming up short on the cliché battle, I’ll never forgive you.”  
  
“I’m very intimidated.”   
  
Miller kicks at Bellamy’s ankles in the middle of the locker room and they’ve got to get on a plane soon. To keep playing hockey. 

They’re still playing hockey. 

In the Eastern Conference Finals. 

“C’mon,” Miller says. “If we get out of here quick, we can set the rules for hold ‘em on the plane and—”  
  
“—I am not playing hold ‘em on the plane with you.”

“That’s just because I’m better at cards than you. Tell your girlfriend that.”  
  
“Stop trying to impress my girlfriend.”

Miller crows. “Nah, you’re doing enough of that yourself. Seriously. Get up. We’ve got to get to D.C.”

* * *

He’d been an idiot about easy. 

There’s nothing easy about hockey. Or this series. Specifically. They split games in D.C., which Bellamy figures is at least some kind of silver lining, but then they lose both games at the Garden and that was embarrassing enough that he didn’t even bother looking at _The Post_ the next morning. 

Game Five is suddenly some kind of must-win moment and they do, but only after giving up forty shots on goal and a two-goal lead in the second and comebacks are starting to take a lot out of Bellamy. 

Every inch of him is sore by the time he stumbles towards his apartment door, Game Six looming in two days and he’s got big plans to sleep for at least the next four hours. 

After he calls Clarke. 

He’s got priorities, at least. 

Bellamy hitches his bag further up his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the ache that appears to have taken root at the base of his spine and he’s got no idea where his keys are, a hand reaching towards the door and—

The handle twists. 

He tilts his head, not as worried as he probably should be because he can hear the TV on already and he can’t stay in the hallway for the rest of the day. His bag is too heavy for that, anyway. 

Bellamy kicks open the door, bag falling unceremoniously at his feet, and that gets a gasp out of the mound of twisted limbs sitting in the middle of his couch. 

Octavia jumps up, sprinting across the room like it’s surprising he’s come back to his own apartment. Bellamy grunts when her knee slams into his, her chin digging almost painfully into his collarbone, but then he’s hugging her back and he’s not all that worried about the problems this will present to his sleep schedule. 

“You couldn’t even lock the door behind you, huh?” he asks. 

“I knew you were almost back here. That’s a very gossipy team you’ve got, you know that?”  
  
“And you threatened Miller with violence if he didn’t give you regular updates.   
  
“Don’t insult me that way,” Octavia objects. “Plus, it was Monroe. So get your facts straight.”

Bellamy scoffs, but his sister hasn’t actually moved out of his space yet and that’s kind of nice. In a best sort of way. “What are you doing here, O? Did you pick my lock?”  
  
“Seriously, the insults,” she grumbles. “No, I didn’t pick your lock. I have a key. Because until a couple months ago, I was the best person to make sure that, if you had died here, cats wouldn’t show up and feast on your body.”   
  
“Jeez.”   
  
“That’s a feasible thing in the city.”   
  
“No, it’s not. God and what are you—”   
  
“—Is your girlfriend coming to your game?”   
  
Bellamy leans back, eyes going thin while Octavia tilts her head up, a picture of calm challenges and the direct opposite of innocence. “Is that what this is? An intervention?”   
  
“You have a stick here? Can I check you?”   
  
“Absolutely not,” Bellamy grumbles, doing his best to pull her arm away from him. He directs them back to the couch, not surprised when Octavia slings her legs over his. “Seriously, O. What are you doing here? I thought you were in—”   
  
“—We were,” she interrupts. “But then Niylah got an assignment in San Salvador and why would I follow her around to cool, new places when I could come to the city in May and shout obscenities at a hockey game?”   
  
“We might not win. Season’ll be over then.”   
  
“Your pessimism is not an admirable trait. Does your girlfriend know that?”   
  
“Undoubtedly.”   
  
Octavia stabs the tip of her finger into his side, smile turning knowing. “That’s good. Solid step in the right relationship direction. And, c’mon—I...well, I really do think you guys will win, but I couldn’t—” She shrugs, something tightening in the middle of Bellamy’s chest. “You’ve been playing so well. And so—it’s like a whole new person on the ice.”   
  
“God.”   
  
“That’s a compliment,” she sneers. “So I know I probably should have asked. About showing up and breaking in, but—”

“—I thought you had a key.”  
  
“I’ll go buy my own stick.”   
  
“Please,” Bellamy objects. “I know you’ve got people in equipment. They’ll bend to your will as soon as you ask.”   
  
“Compliments,” Octavia mumbles. She leans forward, kissing the curve of Bellamy’s shoulder at the same time she tugs on the front of his t-shirt. Team-branded. “I’m not going to miss you keeping the season alive, Bell. I won’t. And I—well, I’m going to cheer my lungs out and—”   
  
“—I found your list.”

He doesn't mean to say it. If asked, Bellamy will blame exhaustion or the general length of his beard because they keep winning and there are rule and superstitions and Octavia’s brows pinch almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth. 

“Or well,” he amends, “Madi did. She just showed me.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
“Why’d you hide it up there?”   
  
She gasps again, understanding coloring her expression. It’s probably wrong to smile. The muscles in Bellamy’s face do not care. They twist and turn up, only a little pleased with himself because it isn’t often he’s able to render Octavia speechless.

And he’s a little surprised by the moisture on her cheeks. 

“Oh, you dick,” she hisses, flailing hands when his thumb ghosts under her eye. “No, no, no, you don’t get to be comforting now. I am—you weren’t ever supposed to see that.”  
  
“None of this is an answer to any of my questions, strangely enough.”   
  
Octavia growls, teeth barred and tears still clinging to her eyelashes. “I—fuck, I...me showing up here was not supposed to be about the garbage, Bell. It was—all of that was garbage. Everything you felt and every reason you ever came up with for why any of it was your fault and—”   
  
“—That was my responsibility,” he whispers. 

“No, it wasn’t. None of it. You can’t save everyone, big brother. But I—wanted to—”  
  
“—Save me?”   
  
“At least your hockey career.”

Bellamy laughs, a kiss pressed to the crown of Octavia’s head. “I don’t know if anyone could do that. I had to figure it out.”  
  
“The girl didn’t save you, huh?”   
  
“She’d hate even the implication. And not really. It was more...letting myself breathe again. It’s easier to do that when she’s around.”   
  
“Shit, that’s romantic.”   
  
“As far as I know, she thought too.”   
  
“Gross.”   
  
“Pick a lane, O.”   
  
She sticks her tongue out and flips him off at the same time, an impressive feat made even more so when she throws her arms around Bellamy’s neck again, holding on tight like she’s ten and telling him about the goal she scored. 

“I wasn’t going to miss this,” Octavia repeats. “Not for anything.”

“I told Madi to keep the list.”  
  
Octavia sniffles, burrowing her face closer to Bellamy. “I love you.”   
  
“I love you too.”

* * *

Octavia falls asleep with her head on Bellamy’s right leg and his fingers twisting in her hair, tiny braids falling towards her shoulder that are another memory and another flash of feeling and he lets himself close his eyes eventually. 

* * *

There’s not enough time left in this game. 

This tie game. 

Bellamy keeps glancing up at the scoreboard like the numbers there will change and it won’t be 3-3 with forty-six seconds left in the third period, but that doesn’t happen and he never really expected it to. The Capitals have called timeout, everyone huddled by their respective benches and Bellamy is only half-listening to the play that’s being literally drawn on the whiteboard.

Miller elbows him. 

Their line isn’t on the ice. 

And, just like he expected, nothing happens in the final forty-six seconds of regulation. 

“Well,” Miller muses, “what fun would this be if it weren’t the single most stressful bullshit in the history of the entire sport?”  
  
“That’s kind of vast, don’t you think?” Bellamy counters. “The whole sport?”   
  
“You heard me.”   
  
“This is an original six franchise. The history is pretty long.”   
  
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a nerd?”   
  
“You should probably save those scathing insults for the other team, huh?”   
  
Miller chuckles, swiping a towel underneath his visor and Bellamy doesn’t want to be a jerk by pointing out that that they probably won’t see the ice to start overtime, but then—

“Blake, Miller, Whitesell! On the ice now!”  
  
Miller drops the towel. Bellamy nearly dislocates his right knee standing up. And Pike doesn’t look all that impressed with either of them — an arched eyebrow and his whiteboard tucked under his arm, but there are also dots of sweat on his forehead and his tie is far looser than it was when this game started. 

“Now,” he repeats. “You guys have been good tonight. Let’s try to ride some of that momentum. And Blake, you better win that fucking faceoff.”

Bellamy gives a brusque nod, meeting his coach’s gaze with nothing except determination churning in the pit of his stomach. He barely flinches when his legs swing over the boards, skates landing perfectly and—

He loses the faceoff. 

“Ah shit,” Bellamy growls, the puck already inches away from his stick. He puts his head down, working to catch up with the Capitals guy in front of him. It doesn’t take him very long. 

Because Bellamy knows exactly what’s going to happen before it does, like it’s playing out in his head. He twists his wrist, a quick stick poke at the same time the Caps guy turns just inside the blue line. 

The crowd at the Garden roars, a turnover and the puck suddenly back on Bellamy’s stick. 

“Skate, idiot,” Miller screeches. 

There’s really nothing else to do after that. 

Speed’s never really been his game, but Bellamy moves faster than he ever has, a stretch of empty ice in front of him. The cheers get louder — and he likes to imagine Octavia is at least jumping, if not standing on her actual seat — Bellamy pushing into the offensive zone, and he knows he’s slowing down, a product of postseason runs and good defenders on the Capitals. 

They catch up. 

And, suddenly, he’s double-teamed, desperately trying to keep possession while ignoring the awkward bend of his spine when he hunches over and Miller is shouting something again. 

Bellamy doesn’t understand the words at first. His ears are ringing and the fans pounding on the glass are honestly impressive, enough noise around him that it’s difficult to hear his own breathing let alone anything else. 

It doesn’t matter. 

He doesn’t need to hear to see. 

And that’s always been Bellamy’s game. 

When he was a kid, they used to say he “could see the ice unlike anyone else,” an eye for the puck and for the goal and, most importantly, open teammates. 

Bellamy’s eyes dart up, Miller uncovered because he’s drawn two Caps players. He flicks his wrist, the puck staying in the zone and Miller’s stick is already pulled back. 

The phrase _rocket of a shot_ will probably be used in excess in a number of game stories across the Tri-State area. 

Miller fires, spinning out as soon as he takes the shot, and it’s as if several roofs have been blown off Madison Square Garden. Bellamy doesn’t bother looking at the net, knows the puck went in and they’ve won the game and the season isn’t over yet. 

He sprints towards center ice, jumping at Miller well before he should and the rest of the team is already pouring over the bench. They’re a jumbled mess, far too many sticks and gloves that are barely hanging on, bumping helmets and screaming in each other’s faces. 

As if they don’t realize they’ve won. 

“Idiot, idiot, idiot,” Miller chants, and that’s confusing for a second, but then—  
  
“They bet on me scoring the game-winner, didn’t they?” Bellamy asks.   
  
“Jasper’s going to be so pissed he didn’t win money again.”

“Good.”  
  
“Yeah, good. Shit, what a fucking pass, man.”

“Bet on that next time.”  
  
“I didn’t bet,” Miller argues. “I’ve got ethics. This mean Clarke’s going to come to the game? I get to meet the kid too?”   
  
Bellamy doesn’t respond. Partially because there’s a stick poking him in the kidney and also because he kind of wants both of those things even more than he wants to win, which is a little weird and a little great and—   
  
Madi spends the first five minutes of the FaceTime screeching and singing the goal song. 

Clarke keeps moving her hand over her mouth. 

“So, uh,” Bellamy starts. “We kind of psyched that we won?”  
  
“Obviously,” Madi yells. “I can’t believe you held onto the puck and Miller was so good and you were so good and—” She has to take a deep breath. “We’re going to win now.”

He nods, not able to do much else when every inch of him feels like it’s combusting. “And, you know—D.C. isn’t that far away, so...if you guys wanted to…”  
  
Madi freezes. Clarke’s hand drops back to her side. 

“I’ve got pull with tickets, is what I’m saying,” Bellamy finishes. Lamely. Octavia rolls her eyes. He has no idea how she got into the locker room. 

“We’ll be there,” Clarke promises. 

“Good.”

And Octavia at least has the common decency to wait until they're in the Uber back to his apartment before she says, “If you don’t tell her you love her after Game Seven, I’ll kill you.”

* * *

“Bell! Bell!”

He skids to a stop, bumping his knuckles against the edge of his visor. Monroe is very pale. And standing on the bench. Pike looks murderous. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he roars. “Get the hell out of here!”  
  
“I can’t. I need to talk to Bell.”   
  
He’s already standing on ice, so Bellamy can’t say that his blood runs cold, exactly, but there’s a tremor in Monroe’s voice that doesn’t have any place in a pre-game skate a few hours before Game Seven of the Eastern Conference Finals. 

He skates forward, Miller’s quick nod of encouragement not all that encouraging. And Monroe’s hand shakes when she hands Bellamy his phone. It’s vibrating. 

“Bad?” he asks softly. 

“Not great,” Monroe says. “C’mon. There’s, uh—we can at least go in the hallway.”

He doesn’t bother putting guards on his skates, a little wobbly as he follows Monroe away from the ice and Pike’s barked-out instructions. The phone keeps shaking in Bellamy’s hand, every sound another text message and he’s already started going through the list of possible bullshit when Monroe stops suddenly. 

“I haven’t actually talked to her yet,” she says, like that makes any sense. “So I haven’t cancelled the car or anything, but I figured you’d want to double check and O was kind of crazy on the phone and—”  
  
“—When did you talk to Octavia?”   
  
“Like fifteen minutes ago? She kept getting distracted when Monty was sending her updates, but—”   
  
“—Wait, wait, wait,” Bellamy interrupts, widening his eyes when Monroe glares at the interruption. “Octavia is ok, right?”   
  
“Yeah, that’s—”   
  
“—Then what is going on?”   
  
His phone vibrates almost violently in his hand, Monroe’s eyebrows flying into her hairline like that’s an answer to the question. And, well — Clarke is calling him. 

“Hey,” Bellamy says, breathless as soon as he tugs the phone to his ear. He hasn’t taken his helmet off yet. The whole thing is patently ridiculous. And terrifying. 

“Hi. I, um—were you at practice? I didn’t...I didn’t want to get you off ice, but…”  
  
“It’s fine. What’s the matter? Are you ok? Monroe said you might not need the car anymore?”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, um—probably not. I—” She takes a shaky breath, only to let it out directly into the phone speaker and Bellamy doesn’t walk back into the wall so much as he stumbles into it. Monroe stares at her feet. “She, uh,” Clarke continues, “she hit the crack in the window.”   
  
“Madi?”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“And that’s…”   
  
“The puck got stuck up on that ledge, though. Um—it...well, from what they said, she wanted to get it back down so she could show us and there’s not a lot of seating that high up, so she was balanced on the top one and—” Bellamy closes his eyes. “—Madi fell off the and they don’t think she’s concussed or anything, didn’t hit her head, thank God, but, um...she threw her hand out to break her fall.”   
  
He keeps his eyes closed. 

Coward. 

“Broken?” Bellamy rasps, Clarke’s soft hum of agreement in his ear. The one still covered by his helmet. “In more than one spot, or just her wrist? Or, oh shit, what about her elbow?”  
  
“I can’t believe you thought to ask about her elbow”   
  
“I know how an arm works, Princess.”   
  
Clarke lets out a watery laugh. “Yeah, that’s pretty basic human biology. But no. Nothing with her elbow. They’re not sure how severe it is yet, doing x-rays now, but there was a lot of swelling when I got there and—”   
  
“—Where was Monty?” 

“This isn’t his fault.”  
  
“No? Is he not the coach of this team?”   
  
“Bell.”   
  
“I’m serious, Clarke. What the fuck? I mean—those kids shouldn’t have been trying to hit the crack in the window to begin with and then Madi’s...what? Climbing up shit. That’s not ok.”   
  
“You were helping her hit the crack in the window.”   
  
He slides down the wall. “I’m so sorry.”   
  
“No, no, that’s not the point of this,” Clarke objects. “There’s no guilt trip here. For you or anyone, well except maybe that Connor kid for goading Madi into climbing on the seat.”   
  
“Fuck that Connor kid.”   
  
“That’s the spirit.”   
  
“She’s really ok?” Bellamy asks softly, and Monroe is doing a garbage job of trying to leave discreetly. 

“Yeah,” Clarke says. “Or, she will be. I just—shit, I was not cool, Bell. Monty called and he was freaking out and then I was freaking out and Madi kept telling me to calm down, but that Connor kid is kind of an asshole and I—” She takes a deep breath. “We’re at the ER now. Murphy drove us and Emori went to get food and they’re going to stick around, but I don’t—”  
  
“—I know. It’s ok.”   
  
“No, it’s not. It totally sucks. We wanted to be there. And I—Monty and Jasper have both offered to stay with Madi because I don’t think it’s a concussion, but they have to do more tests and—God, fuck this.”   
  
The air that rushes out of Bellamy isn’t a laugh, is more like resigned acceptance, but he feels his lips twitch despite his best efforts. The words on his tongue are starting to do permanent damage to the nerve endings there, he’s sure. 

“There’ll be other games, babe.”  
  
“Yeah, next series after you guys win tonight.”   
  
“No jinx.”   
  
“I don’t believe in that anymore.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” Clarke repeats. “And I am—all I wanted to do was to talk to you and I—”

“Do you want me to come up there?”  
  
“Don’t be an idiot.”   
  
“I’m not,” Bellamy says.. “I would.”   
  
There’s a pause before Clarke answers — not quite silent because she’s in a hospital and he’s in a hockey arena and maybe that string of words is better than the one he’s been swallowing back for the last month. 

They'll get there. 

“No,” Clarke whispers. “This isn’t life or death, Bell. And I—you’re going to win, I know it.”  
  
“Should probably try and score then.”   
  
“You better.”   
  
“Deal,” he mutters. “I won’t be able to look at my phone once the games starts, but—”   
  
“—I’ll let you know what’s going on,” Clarke interrupts. “Seriously score a goal.”   
  
“Ok.”

* * *

“Here,” Miller says, an hour before puck drop. Pike’s meeting with the media is long over, everyone half-dressed by their lockers and going through their pre-game rituals. 

Bellamy’s taping his stick. 

“C’mon,” Miller continues, stepping on Bellamy’s sock-covered toes. “I’ve been told several times this is crucial to our success.”  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?”   
  
“Rules are rules, Bell!”

He snaps his head up. Because that voice should not be in the visitors locker room and Miller is holding his phone and— “They called me because they knew you wouldn’t pick up,” Miller explains. “But I draw the line at singing.”  
  
There's a general outcry from Arkadia, shouts of _those are the rules_ and _tradition dictates_ and they’re all crowded around the phone. 

Bellamy shakes his head. “You guys are insane.”  
  
“Yeah, but in an endearing sort of way,” Harper grins. “Plus. We didn’t do this last time and we’ve decided that was a mistake So. Those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it, right?”   
  
“Something like that.”   
  
“You’ve got to sing, Miller,” Jasper adds, hitting a button and the music isn’t very loud. They’re two-hundred miles away. 

Bellamy’s heart doesn’t care. 

It feels as if they’re standing in front of his locker, horrible rhythm and swaying heads and neither he nor Miller actually sing, but there’s some fairly dramatic lip-syncing, so it probably evens out. In a superstitious, pre-game ritual sort of way. 

The music fades out eventually, Monty’s arm slung around Jasper and Harper’s shoulders when he crowds into the phone frame. “Go win,” he says. “We’ll take care of everything else.”

* * *

Bellamy doesn’t think about the meaning behind those words until the third period. 

* * *

They’re winning. 

He keeps having to repeat that specific sentence over and over in head, but Bellamy is still only kind of convinced this is a dream. That’s ridiculous. If it were a dream Clarke would have been there. And that’s melodramatic. 

Still. 

They’re winning. 

A one-goal lead with five minutes left in the third and every one of his muscles feels like they're crying out to _sit down_ , but Pike’s shouting line changes and his skates scrape the ice and one of Bellamy’s knees definitely cracks when he moves. 

They’re winning. 

So, whatever happens next is more like goal-scoring confetti and some much-needed breathing room, but it’s important and it’s quick and— "Move, move, move,” Bellamy chants, mostly to himself. Like a goddamn crazy person. 

The Capitals winger is in front of him, and name might be Cosser or something, Bellamy honestly can’t remember, especially when he pushes his stick forward, barely getting the blade on the puck in front of him and he hears Cosser whatever-his-name is curse. 

Loudly. 

The puck bounces off the board, Bellamy’s eyes never leaving the movement as he darts forward. It’s a wide angle towards the net, backhand to forehand and the goalie is already out of position. He grins. 

There’s too much net to miss. 

So, he doesn't. 

They’re winning, by two goals now, and in D.C. so there isn’t much more than a dejected groan from the crowd, but Bellamy finds a flash of blue jersey and a few familiar numbers and he might actually scream. 

In joy or something. 

Whatever sound flies out of him is triumphant, at least, Miller rushing towards him and hugging tight enough to do damage to a few ribs, the arms of every guy on the bench flung into the air. 

“Five bucks right now,” Miller says, dragging Bellamy back towards the bench so he can celebrate some more, “that _The Post_ headline includes some form of the phrase _pocket picked_.”

“Oh, that’s too easy, don’t you think?”  
  
“Have you ever read _The New York Post_?”   
  
“Fair, fair,” Bellamy laughs. “I’ll go a full seven that they don’t use that in the headline. But maybe in the lede.”   
  
“Journalism jargon.”   
  
“I’m way smarter than you.”   
  
“Yeah, you tell the girl you love her yet?” Another unfamiliar noise rises in the back of Bellamy’s throat, Miller holding his hand up to take a towel from the equipment guy. He hums. “Yeah, that’s what I figured. Alright, well I’m winning on multiple fronts then. Let’s go Rangers, huh?”

The Caps pull their goalie eventually, and it sounds like the arena is buzzing, an anxious energy that Bellamy understands because he’s starting looking at the clock almost too much. 

They can’t get the puck out of the zone 

And he keeps dropping down, cracking joints and a little desperation because time seems to be moving backwards at this point. He curses when he blocks a shot, certain a bruise is already forming just above his ankle. Still stuck in the zone. 

Bellamy’s muscles feel stretched out as the minutes stretch on, head on a swivel and eyes darting up and Miller is practically panting from his spot near the circle. The puck moves around them, back and forth, over and down and behind the net, but nothing ever lands on goal and Bellamy doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he lets it out. 

As soon as the horn sounds. 

He jerks forward as soon as someone collides with his back, stick dropping to the ice and eyes going wide and he can’t find Octavia near the boards. Octavia came to the game. 

They ask him after the game what his first emotion was like and he answers honestly because everything is a bit of a blur, adrenaline spiking and falling at a rhythm that can’t be good for his body, timing up with the hyperactive thud of his heart and just how wide his smile goes when they line up for handshakes. 

There are more questions. And cameras. Flashes that make Bellamy blink. And he’s got to find Octavia and his phone, but then there are somehow even _more_ questions and he can’t stop smiling, nodding and laughing and they give them brand-new merch. 

Eastern Conference champions. 

There are hats. 

“It’s not a good look for you, Blake,” Miller announces while he tugs a shirt over his pads and flashes a grin at a nearby camera. Bellamy throws his glove at him. 

And eventually it slows, deadlines that have to be met and highlight spots that have get transmitted back to New York, a thinner crowd in the locker room that makes it obvious when the footsteps start to approach. 

Or when they stop. 

Bellamy freezes, exactly where he’s sitting, with his vibrating phone in his hand and—“Raspberries,” he mumbles.   
  
“Are you going insane?” Miller quips. “Don’t do that. It’s going to fuck up our Cup chances.”   
  
Bellamy shakes his head slowly, clamoring to his feet and looking around like she’ll just appear in front of him and that’s almost exactly what happens. 

Clarke skids to a stop just inside the locker room door, the toes of her shoes coming up just short of a pile of discarded championship hats and no one wanted the hats. Octavia’s half a step behind, the kind of look that would have made teenage Bellamy roll his eyes because it’s exactly the kind of look that means she pulled off some kind of elaborate scheme and he really should have moved. 

“Oh my God, anticlimactic,” Miller grumbles.  
  
“Right?” Octavia adds. 

Bellamy ignores them. He stares at Clarke, a little out of breath and as worried as he expected her to be, but she’s wearing that t-shirt and his mind kind of short-circuits after that. 

She runs. 

It isn’t easy — not with equipment everywhere and hampers full of discarded jerseys, but Clarke weaves her way across the space and Bellamy still doesn’t _fucking move_. He lets her slam into his chest, pushed up on her toes so she can throw both her arms over his shoulders. 

They stay that way for a moment, Bellamy trying to come to grips with the feel of her against him and how well she fits there and has, since the very start, and maybe that’s what does it — how simple it’s been. So, his arms move and his nose pushes into her hair and he holds onto Clarke Griffin like she’s the only thing that keeps him tethered to the Earth. 

Clarke exhales when they rock side to side, trying to pull herself closer, but there’s nowhere else to go and nothing else to do and—

“We won,” she whispers. 

Bellamy doesn’t have to look up to know Octavia is beaming. The cheering from the suddenly-watching peanut gallery of delinquents in a hospital several hundred miles away is a pretty good sign. 

“How are you here?” Bellamy asks, only a little hopeful that this isn’t the dream. It’d make more sense now. “I thought—”  
  
“—Were you not listening, Bell?” Monty shouts. “I said, we’d take care of it.”   
  
Clarke leans back, eyes gone a little glossy. “They did. They—well, they wouldn’t take no for an answer, the assholes. Brought food and someone must have broken into the house because I wasn’t just wearing your number around.”   
  
“That’s disappointing, honestly,” Bellamy mumbles. 

Octavia and Jasper groan in tanden. 

“You guys need new locks,” Murphy says. “And this is all Madi’s fault, really. She’s the one who told Clarke to go.”  
  
Bellamy’s never had a lung collapse, so he’s not sure what it would feel like exactly, but this much more pleasant than he assumed. Clarke scrunches her nose “Adamant,” she shrugs. “And super pissed that I wasn't going to go. Like—more upset about that than she was about breaking her wrist.”   
  
“She broke her wrist?”   
  
“Yeah, but it’s a cool colored cast and she’s got big plans to have several professional hockey players sign it. So. That’s something. And, uh—no Baltimore, but Indra’s already got backup plans for the backup plans. I wanted to be here. Plus, we’ll figure it out?”   
  
Bellamy’s not sure if it’s supposed to sound like an invitation, but he’s nodding anyway and his face is going to freeze like this. In happiness. 

So, really there’s no reason to do anything except bend his knees and move his hand and kiss the ever living daylights out of his girlfriend. 

Clarke laughs into his mouth. 

Bellamy’s hand flattens against Clarke’s back like there are magnets there, her nails scratching lightly against his neck. And they’ve gotten very good at this — practiced rhythm and quick swipes of tongues, head at a certain angle that make it easier to keep their noses from bumping. 

But this feels like something different. 

This feels like another line and the start of everything else and the thought leaves Bellamy a little lightheaded. 

“A stupid good goal,” Clarke murmurs.   
  
“Impressed?”   
  
“You’re fishing.”   
  
“Sounds impressed.”   
  
“You have to get on a flight, or…”   
  
“Nah, I’ve got big plans to make out with you for at least ten more minutes,” Bellamy says, Clarke’s answering eye roll lacking any real frustration. It is, he assumes, why the next few words fall out of him. “I, uh—I love you.”

Something, something...it’s like watching the goddamn sun rise. 

Clarke’s smile moves slowly, like it’s testing out the feeling and the sentiment and she pushes back on her toes, nipping at Bellamy’s lower lip and curling her fingers into the collar of his championship shirt. 

He’s dimly aware of cheering from the phone and several other spots in the locker room, but Clarke is also still kissing him. So. Priorities. Again. 

“I love you, too,” Clarke says, and it is the only thing he will think about for at least the next forty-eight hours. 

They won. 

* * *

They don’t win a Stanley Cup. 

It’s not bad, per se, but no loss is ever really good and it’s quiet in the locker room. 

It’s quiet in the hallway outside the Garden. 

It’s quiet when he walks towards the exit, no celebration this time, no merch, or smiles or questionable locker room break-ins and—

“Bellamy!”

He stops dead in his tracks because they weren’t supposed to meet him here, but _supposed to_ is a silly pair of words and Bellamy catches Madi as soon as she rushes towards him. She’s not crying, which makes his own tear-filled eyes seem a little over the top, but she hugs him tightly, the side of her cast scraping at his skin. 

She doesn’t let go. 

He doesn’t let go. 

And they don’t say anything, even when Clarke’s hand lands on Bellamy’s shoulder, a soft smile that feels like another promise. Something about a new start, probably. 

“You played so good,” Madi whispers. “The Blues are stupid anyway.”  
  
He barks out a laugh, tightening his arms. “Yeah, that’s definitely true. We boycott fried ravioli for like a week, ok?”   
  
“Ok.”

And it’s not a win — not of the Stanley Cup variety, at least, but that doesn’t make it any less...perfect. Clarke’s fingers lace through Bellamy’s. “You want to go home?” he asks. 

She nods. “Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

They spend the off-season at the rink in Arkadia, music blasting and Madi’s wrist healing and she sends a puck into a different window a week before Bellamy has to go back to New York. 

* * *

The All-Star game next season is in Washington D.C.

And he’s not fresh off a Stanley Cup-winning run, but he’s starting to think about slightly different rings, half a plan and all hope and Madi definitely knows. 

She keeps sending furtive glances at him during skills, like she expects him to do something in the middle of fastest skater. 

“Stop that,” he mutters. Madi grins. It’s frustratingly similar to Clarke’s. 

Who is, in fact, smiling in the stands, a small contingent of Rangers t-shirts and Bellamy’s Eastern Conference champions hat, which Murphy claimed as his own three days after they got back to Arkadia. She waves when she catches Bellamy’s eye, Madi coughing _do it_ under her breath.   
  
Bellamy sighs. “Stop that,” he repeats. “After we win.”   
  
Madi considers that, nodding eventually and they announce Bellamy breaks some kind of hardest shot record. That seems like a sign. 

“Do it, do it, do it, do it,” Madi chants. 

He doesn’t. He has to buy the ring first, anyway. So he does. And it sits in his equipment bag. And in the back of his drawer. And under the loose floorboard in Madi’s closet. 

It’s not like Bellamy ever forgets about it — can’t possibly when Madi is so insistent — but there are other factors, or so he tells Madi regularly, miles and western swings and he’s starting to wonder if this is the last season. 

He wouldn’t mind if it was. 

He’d just like to win first. 

“Twelve bucks,” Clarke says one night, a week after the trade deadline and the Rangers are firmly cemented in the playoff race.   
  
“What?”   
  
“Twelve bucks. That’s what I bet Jasper on you guys getting home ice throughout the playoffs. I think it seems like a lock. He wasn’t so sure.”   
  
Bellamy grins, shifting where he’s slumped in a bed that feels far too big when he’s by himself. “A lock, huh?”   
  
“Absolutely.”   
  
“Is that confidence I hear?”   
  
“Determination to get my twelve bucks back. And because I know we’re going to win. Just think what home ice will do on a Cup run.”   
  
He hums, a slow nod, but the emotion that bursts behind his ribs is enough to be a little jarring and even more wonderful. “Seems reasonable. I’ll see what I can do about home ice, ok?”   
  
“That’s all I’m asking. I love you, Bell.”   
  
“I love you too, Princess.”

* * *

They do better than get Clarke’s twelve dollars back. 

They win the President’s Trophy. 

And the second straight playoff appearance has a different ending — a championship and confetti and Clarke pressed against Bellamy’s side as soon as she and Madi get to the ice. 

He asks when they get home. 

She kisses him. 

Bellamy figures that’s the answer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's a completed fic, huh? Thank you guys so much for clicking and reading and saying very nice things. It's been a delight to force my hockey love on another fandom. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) where I'll keep shouting about hockey, Bellamy Blake's curls and the fic I continue to stress-write.


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